#i need to go do some more reading on brain injury symptoms. again. because writing it the same way both times feels LAZY and also wrong

[spellsparkler]

if I had a nickel for every video game protagonist I made up who is an unsettling and socially strange not-person with a plot mandated tbi. etc etc

[darling-answers]

I BEG YOU Ana Amari with a injured reader, maybe she sick or dying of a illness idk just make it angst, I saw that talk about wanting more Ana Amari fanfic so idk I feel like letting people suffer and cry.

“ oh Gibraltar were had the time gone?”

This will be pre-fall I would like to say when Overwatch was still in best working order, just right after the omnic crisis

Warning! There may be inaccurate deceive of AML, I have done my best at researching the topic but doesn’t me my accuracy on knowing aml is good because I have never experienced before. Ana may be a little off topic because no matter what, you should always respect the choice of someone body. Death! Is implied and mention. this isn’t a happy ending. Blood! Is mentioned, noise and mouth bleeding Mentions, Oppression and violence. There also mention of symptoms of cancer effects with chemotherapy, chemotherapy is mentioned multiple times. Fainting is mentioned

Thank you for all who reads my stories and showed there support i appreciate it greatly

REQUEST ARE OPEN I WRITE FOR VENTURE TOO SO SEND THEM SOME LOVE.

The warning signs were there but you couldn’t expect it to get this bad? how could anyone know how bad it gotten when it just happened. Being a overwatch agent and putting civilians as your top priority before your own health problems wasn’t uncommon. It comes with you being a soldier and wanting to do what right. Sticking up for the weak even if it comes with your own life. So why must this situation be different.

The First warning sign happen when you were out on a mission to help civilians who may have been lost or trapped under the rubble, it was going according to plan, nothing seem out of the ordinary until the next thing you had known was blood was coming from your nostrils and mouth. Wiping it off on your sleeve painting it with fresh blood made it easy to forget about, it could happen to anyone so why must your situation be different, there still civilians need help, so pick yourself up soldier and help the others, You tell yourself over and over again.

Helping civilians get to safety and back to there family had made you smile, but the comfort of the ship that would be leading you back to your home and the people you call family is just a different feeling. When sitting down in your designated seat, Reinhardt was right infront of you, talking (yelling.) about how well his mission did, talking about the tiny children who he got to flex his arms to. Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes carried on their conversation about the on going crisis in the rest of the world, torbjorn talked about his family showing Reinhardt picture of his newly born daughter Brigitte but always the mother hen Ana had taken notice of the blood.

“ habibati, where did such blood come from? Had there been anyone seriously injured? On the catalog I did not seen any reports of very serious injuries?” She mumbles setting her sniper down, the way the sniper aim was up relaxing in the wall of the aircraft, safety was on and the eye of the pistol was up. She leans over to grab the coat of your overwatch outfit and taken a look of the sleeve.

“ I’m fine Ana, I promise, there is nothing to worry about just some blood no need to fuss.” She gave you a serious look Almost crinkling her brows. “ you tell me if anything is wrong. Alright? I want you to be alright.” She looks serious pointing a finger before she lets go from the topic when she felt satisfied.

The Second warning came when in training with Cassidy, you felt you’re whole body zap out of energy, the room was so dizzy and fussy, your brain felt slow and sluggish, you’re arms and legs felt like a ice about to melt into a puddle. Your body gave up and slammed itself to the ground. Waking up in the infirmary with Angela Ziegler talking about your body and health, noticing the way your body seems to be weaker than before. You lost incredible amount of weight which for a normal person would feel happy about it, the weight your body was dropping was to dangerous to not start trying to figure out what was wrong with you.

“ i thought you would’ve told me if something was wrong. The fact you tried hiding it makes me think it might be time i took over your position and put you’re mission on hold until i feel everything is better.” Ana mumbled kissing your forehead as she gently placed her hand on the top of your head.

Angela returned with a chart, writing your vitals and simple questions she have asked you such as, how long have these symptoms been going on, how severe have these conditions been. She clicked her pin shut as she looked up from her notes. “ if you don’t mind I would like to request and recommend we run a few test on you. I’m thinking running a Blood test on you, we will be analyzing it using a microscopic evaluation of the blood, or by using flow cytometry to try and figure. This will all be done if we get your consent so would you mind if we do this?” Angela tilt her head at the last part as she hears the exact words she needs to hear to start preparing for the blood samples.

After gathering the blood sample, she sends you and Ana on your way as she tells you the test results will need 2-3 weeks to be able to fully confirm the diagnosis. Ana made sure throughout the week to make sure that you would rest and not strain your already fragile condition. Every night Ana would lay in bed making sure her arms were around your body and start whispering stuff in Arabic. More symptoms started popping up which caused Ana to get worried even worse than before. Bruising would form out of nowhere not even you could remember how you got those bruises, night sweats became one of the worse causing the lack of sleep, hot flashes and the urge to not eat anything were evidence that something definitely wasn’t right.

“ Oh, how I know it hurts habibati, let’s try and get some rest.” She would mumbles as she made sure the bed only have loose sheets. The way you could barely hold down anything or even get out of bed made her concerns grow even worse. Sometimes you would wake up with her right besides you and other times you were alone in bed. Days and nights started to blur in your memory as you laid in bed, not being able to fully move or walk without assistance.

“ we have gotten the test results back and it might be best. If you sit down ana this is difficult for both of you.” Angela pulled up a chair and sat down in a chair crossing her legs as she looks over at Ana then comes back to you. “ after throughly examining the changes in you’re body we have confirm the diagnosis of you have a form of leukemia that is very hard to treat. It is called Acute myelogenous leukemia. It a common aggressive form of leukemia that affects your bone marrow and blood.”

The face of exhaustion from you and the horror of Ana Face was like no other, how long had it been since you see Ana so hopeless..? This isn’t what you wanted to see.

“ There is good news and bad news, we may be able to start treatment to help fight off the leukemia but with the illness being around the bone marrow most medicines may not be able to reach the place the leukemia is resting, it may be long and hard but you have some chance of survival if you would like to start that I can get it prepared.”

“ What are the chances of me surviving..? I don’t want to live my life in fear that this illness will come back, I don’t want the exhaustion and agonizing treatments, I don’t want to be stuck in a hospital wasting away the only time I get pure entertainment is if someone come visit me. Please Ana, i’m scared and I don’t want to leave you alone but I don’t want to deal with this heartache.” She clutched her wife hand as she leans over weakly giving a kiss to her wife forehead as she comes to rest her sweaty face on that of her wife.

“ I have seen a lot of people survive AML and I also scene some who not, a man in December survive the AML with a few rounds of chemo and some rehabilitation and now he living his life with a wife and few kids. I’ve also scene some people not wish to fight this agonizing battle. So why I might not suggest not taking treatments I will accept whatever you would like us to do.”

Angela Zeigler nodded her head towards you before looking at Ana, Ana somberly looked at the hands which were neatly folded in her. The struggle to make the choice or even express agreement or disagreement weigh ever on her shoulders. “ if you would not like to start chemo and pass away in your home with me and our family by your side I will respect your wishes. I’m so sorry you were even given these choices.” Ana closed her eyes and cried in her hands chocking out her answers as she leans to rest her head on your shoulder.

“ don’t cry Ana, this battle has been long and hard, I was given a purpose on earth and that was to protect the people around me, I made my choice and now I may be rest in the peace of the afterlife knowing I have saved lives. You have to be strong for Pharah and Overwatch.”

The weakly smiles that adores both you and Ana face made it way to accept the idea more easily. The decision to not go and do chemo was not selfish in the eyes of Ana, she knew of the effects of chemo, Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, Hair loss, Skin dryness and rashes the effects almost seem limitless.

“ so if I’m to confirm You ( state your name.) are refusing to take chemotherapy, which may have help you live a few years longer. You understand the negative side effects that may come with this. You may also always come back to wanting to do chemotherapy but the more you wait the more will not be likely to have the cancer be eradicated.”

Ana looked over and nodded at you, “ I will accept whatever you say or think. Please speak what you need to.” Ana looked into your eyes. “ I accept to refusing treatment for chemotherapy and know the harms and risk that may come and the outcome.” The weakly sound of coughing finishing off the statement.

“ alright, I will notify strike commander to take you off of all mission briefs and when you are ready please notify whoever you would like about what the future is going forward.” Mercy nodded politely leaving you and Ana alone in the room. Ana looked over at you, brushing your cheekbone as the weak sound of raspy breath came in and out. “ Thank you for letting me have a choice, I wouldn’t do this if I wasn’t sure the outcome would be the same.”

Ana nodded to your words helping you settle in bed. She weakly clutches the clothing near her heart as she looks at you. She tried to take a deep breath as to not let the tears follow but it getting harder looking at your weak state. She started walking towards the door to give you room only to be stopped by the croak of a voice. “ Ana…” Ana turned around and looked at you walking over and kneeling down near your bed side.

“ I love you and Pharah so much.” You mumbles as Ana whisper some words of praise before getting up and leaving the room. Days become even more of a blur as your visited by most of Overwatch agents besides a few. Even Moira O’Deorain made her presence known as she commands great respect and recognition for how you saved lives and great combat skills.

The day came, one year and a day after you first got the symptoms of something wrong that you passed peacefully by your besides, laying beside you was Ana who was on your left. Pharah who birthday just came a few weeks ago making her 10 and one of your best friends who also supported you think through thin, Reinhardt. A day that would’ve been sad wasn’t sad, they knew you would of beat there ass if you found out they weren’t lighting up the party with some shots as you’re lowered into your casket. Your funeral which played one of your favorite songs, “Dreaming of you” by Selena Quintanilla was a mother and daughter dance for ana and pharah.

You were given a gravesite with the soldiers who had fallen in the war adored with flowers and so much love and care from military units all across the world. Some left Quarters, some left penny, dimes and nickels. You were known around the world and a statue as a memorial in your home town was placed to honor the dedication you had to fighting for what right and standing up for communities who may have been oppressed.

As time gone on and the state of Overwatch went into shambles Winston recalled woke up a different side in Overwatch agents, instead of doing stuff how Jack Morrison would do, the Overwatch hero’s knew who to look up to in the end.

Pharah looking up into the sky hoping that maybe she would see you there looking down and protecting her.

[sag-dab-sar]

(I'm so so so sorry this is long but I can't seem to squeeze it down unless I wait awhile and read it again but I'm afraid migraines might prevent that so here is my brain dump)

Okay I wanted to chime in with a comment but like it got a bit long so I was going to write two comments then said fuck it and wrote a post instead

First. I realize you said it is not a "must"! So this isn't an argument just a "I want to show a perspective" sort of post, and answering the disability thing. /gen

Second, I also advocate for learning parts of the language that are relevant to practice, for examples instead of slapping the Tungusic languages' "shaman" on a spiritual practice, learn what that culture called that ritual in their language. My emphasis is usually "learn the phrases that are necessary for proper understanding" not "learn the language." Examples such as Eusebia or Kharis for Greek religion, Me and Sukkal for Sumerian religion, Norito and Jinja for Shinto etc. You might want to learn a modern language, because the ancient culture will have more resources in that particular language like a Slavic language for forms of ancient Slavic religion.

Third, I'm an absolute MASSIVE fan of research, LINK and LINK and LINK (small bit of redundancy on the last two but not fully). I do think it's important to fact check, and misinformation will always piss me off, I love debunking misinformation but I feel kind of bad if people deactivate because of me. I do think we need to remind ourselves how hard research can be, LINK, sometimes a practitioner has innocent ignorance they simply don't know, not willful. It becomes willful when they refuse to engage with actual facts presented to them. The younger they are the more innocent ignorance they probably have.

🔹In Regards to Disability Question

It is not only ability to learn but accessibility to learn. Many language courses emphasize Speaking, Listening, Reading, and Writing. If you can't do one of those then many resources become useless.

For me the main disabilities are severe fatigue from CFS and long covid (I can't sit up for a majority of the day); a TBI my aphasia apparently can kick in at random now; memory problems; and especially migraines.

I'm not saying ALL people in these examples cannot learn it but second language learning as an adult, can be significantly difficult if you fall in any of these "categories". If you can't do all of the four "aspects" of language learning it can easily lead to frustration and inaccessibility.

Any speech disorders

Any condition that has acquired different forms of aphasia (which can be a lot)

Traumatic brain injuries

Dyslexia depending on severity, especially if the language is written in a script different from their native language.

Any neurological problem that effects the memory center.

Intellectual disabilities even if they could learn their native language to some degree.

May be difficult for deaf people unless it's another sign language, this isn't true for all deaf people of course. But their is also accessibility to language learning materials, someone who uses ASL may find the most popular learning programs simply don't consider deaf learners when developing their programs.

Blind individuals often lack the resources for many languages, so it's possible but significantly more difficult. If a language learning primarily on listening/speaking thats useful but when they emphasize reading/writing with no assistive technology they kind of shut the door to access the language for blind people.

Deafblind individuals need various specific communication devices.

Actually, anyone that use Augmented and Alternate Communication, even if they only use it occasionally. There are so many disabilities/nerodivergence that use AAC

Treatments or Medications that disrupt thought processes or communication.

Many mental illnesses that disrupt communication as a symptom and its more than "execution dysfunction." For example: word salad or logorrhea. Or the nearly complete inability to learn ASL, due to severe flat affect that prevents using proper grammar when signing.

Motor disfunction that effects any part of body used to speak or sign.

Brain fog, fatigue, migraines, chronic pain. If you have any of these consistent practice may be essentially impossible you may be in bed for a week, you may have to save the brain power to do a basic household chore. Language practice takes a back seat, and before you know it you haven't practiced in a month and forgot a lot—making language learning a difficult energy consuming task that someone cannot afford to "spend" energy on.

"Verbal ability to learn their native language" we learn that at like 2 years old. The average person can learn their native language starting as a toddler. Toddlers are bombarded by a language they hear around them. Adults usually aren't, and they usually have some idea about the language before going to that area that speaks it.

Actually I have a good example, I learned Darija (and clawed out some French from the back of my brain) out of sheer necessity while living in Morocco Rabat's old walled city. I didn't know any Darija, maybe Hi and Thank You. I kind of knew the standard Arabic alphabet but almost no words. Since no one spoke English at all and as you went "deeper" into the walled city many didn't even know French I learned it out of necessity which is basically the same reason a toddler learns it. I had to take a Darija "class" while there and came extremely close to flunking, I didn't get a single good grade. Yet buying correct foods in the walled city, bartering in the souk very effectively, taxi conversations, and other things I did just fine— despite nearly flunking. I think language acquisition and language studying/learning can be two different things. Babies get acquisition long before proper education based learning. In Morocco, I got language acquisition and nearly flunked language learning. Also I know literally none of it now.....like at all. I don't even know Arabic script, I forgot it because I never used it. And in 2019 I probably could have easily relearned Arabic/Darija. But now? My memory, TBI, and exhaustion say no.

🔹I'll use me, a monolingual language lover as an example. And connect them to my religious practices so its kind of on topic with a 🔸.

First, I fall under the "cannot spend any energy on language learning" and "the consistency of learning would be too inadequate" so essentially any language isn't really feasible, but I'll mention things anyways.

I can't seem to learn Spanish no matter how hard I try due to [insert bad mental health symptoms here] and feeling like I'm failing making me want to quit because somehow it doesn't come as naturally to me as opposed to other languages. I was fluent as a kid, so its the first type of heritage language, and that makes me crave learning it, but I just... can't. I might be able to learn Spanish reading/writing, not listening/speaking. But I can't sit up with a book to do it. And even if I could, at the beginning of this month the aphasia hit so bad I couldn't read literally anything in my native language. 🔸It would be useful for the worship of Mary Our Lady of Solitude (María de la Soledad) who is mainly venerated in Spanish & Portuguese speaking countries, and Our Lady of Altagracia (La Virgen de la Altagracia) as protector and mother of Dominican people. It would also let me explore Taino history and explore Dominican Voodoo & Espiritismo, all with cultural sensitivity.

Then there is ancient Greek, which to some degree can be understood today by many Greeks. I'd still prefer to learn modern Greek because its another heritage language, second type I guess. I'd just sound silly speaking in Ancient Greek. Big issues is I NEED audio for Greek learning and my daily migraines don't care what I need. 🔸I think it would be nice to speak in my heritage language to the Greek Gods, I don't think they'd mind the modern form. But right now it seems I simply can't... thanks brain.

Again, I learn best from listening.🔸Not exactly a lot of recordings in ancient Sumerian, and I certainly cannot learn cuneiform, so I have no clue how it's pronounced.... same with Akkadian. It might be cool to say prayers in Sumerian, but I'd rather learn French or German for the Assyriologists resources, if I chose to learn for my Sumerian practice.

And while I think I'm decent at learning Japanese, my undiagnosed brain issue, memory, fatigue, and other stuff mean I can't do Kanji and its just a difficult language in general. One of my favs though.🔸It would be spectacular to learn for Shinto. But all I know is Kana and how to pronounce it, so the prayer book with Kana Romaji and English is helpful but information materials on Shinto aren't as accessible.

As I said I'm an audio learner in every which way..... but the daily migraines have decided that they don't like the activity. I think German is probably the only language I could learn with minimal audio but still learn speech (I'd probably have a distinct accent though) I am very good at German if I give it a chance. But Greek? I need allllllll the audio. And of course I have no energy to "spend" on language learning.... also modern Greek has abysmal levels of learning material compared to other languages.

.🔹.

So yeh I disagree with the "learn the language" part as @transbutchblues does in the comments. Though I believe learning at least some small parts can be necessary or valuable. And if you want serious in depth research a modern language could be a good idea. And of course I'm speaking of neo-pagan and revived polytheisms not traditions that require a second language of some kind. Also HEAVILY agree on the research, and respecting cultures even if its reading info about the modern culture in your native language

My most controversial take is that I think if youre going to be any kind of culturally based polytheist, you should a) learn the language and b) learn to do scholarly research.

I wont use the word "must", and call me a gatekeeper all you like, but there is so much misinformation out there that if you care about your practice being authentic/culturally sensitive AT ALL you need to learn how to sift through the centuries of romanticism and neopagan-speculation-sold-as-fact (looking at you, Wiccans).

Not saying your practice must be reconstructionist in nature, but if you can't tell what is supported by the data, what is conjecture, and what is outright fabrication, you are doing the material, your practice, and yourself a disservice.

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

msr + world war ii

the way I could technically spin this to fit with the actual canon in-universe AU (6×03 Triangle) but like... I'm actually gonna do a twist on the 50s AU I started trying to write while I was brainfried from a cold this past week lol. this is so random and probably won't make any sense without reading my tags on this post lol

Binary Star

~2k words | WWII AU Pilot | pre-MSR | AO3

Dana Scully nearly lost her younger brother from violent illness when she was eight years old. What she did lose was the proper use of her left leg, but what she gained was an intense need for understanding of the human body. It's only intensified as she grows older, fights her way into medical school right as boys her brother's age are fighting their way through enemy lines in Europe.

Young men in the prime of their lives with the lives they planned to lead stolen from them see a young, pretty woman with a crippled leg using a cane coming to treat their injuries and they have one of two reactions: they either look sidelong at her with scorn, or they start crying. All the doctors are healthy, said one boy, her younger brother's age, and no one can understand each other. That's the moment Dana knows she chose the right profession.

Fox Mulder lost his little sister when he was twelve, and gained an intense need to understand why, and what happened. His father was a government contractor before the War, and got back in with the secret services as soon as the States decided to step in. Fox dodged the draft because of the familial privilege that couldn't save his kid sister, and because the FBI wanted him on the home front. Maybe his father couldn't bear to sacrifice another child to whatever happens behind the scenes in those smoke-filled government offices where they claim war plans are made, when really it's so much more than that.

Dana has seen things that she can't explain. Men with their flesh eaten away, that she can only treat with dangerous doses of painkillers; some who came home with fifty years added to their age after only being gone for a few months; a nurse who exhibited symptoms of radiation exposure despite never leaving the country and another who died painfully of a tumor that Dana has only ever seen in illustrations, eating through her sinus cavity into her brain. That last is the one that piques Dana's medical curiosity; the woman had insisted with a surprising gravity and calmness that she'd been abducted and experimented on. The vividness of her descriptions, of white light and fear she could never fully remember, was such that Dana has to doubt it was all contrived, or a symptom of the cancer. She's heard talk of conspiracies, the government conducting secret experiments in New Mexico or other unlikely places; her sister believes it all, but Dana questions. She wants to know.

Mulder isn't expecting the knock on the door of the basement office; he isn't even supposed to be down here. There are more important things to worry about and work on than the mysterious x-files, what with a war going on all around them. But there's a folder down here with his sister's name on it, because if any case can be considered unexplained, it's Samantha's abduction. His father had ordered an FBI investigation, but Mulder thinks it was all for show. He knows a little too much about what goes on down in Roswell, New Mexico; just enough that he keeps a lookout over his shoulder. No one knows he came down here again, so he pretends he doesn't know he's always putting himself in danger and he quips that there's no one down here, just the FBI's most unwanted.

Dana was told she might find the man she's looking for down here, in an unused office full of files. She wonders if her answers are down here, or if Fox Mulder is holding them in his hands. He pulls off a pair of reading glasses and looks at her with mild surprise. "Agent Mulder," she says, resting both hands primly on the buffed, comfortable handle of her cane, "I was told you might be able to help me."

He listens, absolutely intent, to the little doctor who limps into his office and rattles off a description that lines up with half the abductee stories he's heard. He has permission to take a case in Oregon, teenagers disappearing and coming back wrong or broken. It sounds a little too much like the boys who are sent home from the front lines, and a little too unearthly; they're sending him to make sure whatever facet of their conspiracy it is doesn't get out. So, on impulse, he invites Dana Scully to come along with him. He doesn't have a partner right now, he says — Diana was sent to a Naval base overseas — and he could use her medical expertise. Maybe they can help each other.

"Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?" He asks when he hands her the file, and Dana scoffs. Her patients have told her some terrible, inexplicable tales, but no matter what she doesn't see behind the scenes of this war, she's never given credence to the notion.

"Logically," she replies, "I would have to say no. Given the distances needed to travel from the far distances of space, the energy requirements would exceed any kind of craft's capabilities."

Mulder's eyes brighten and he smirks. "That, Dr. Scully, is conventional wisdom. What do we do when, in the case of these kids or your patient who died, convention and science don't offer us the answers we need?"

"The answers are there, you just have to know where to look." This is the tenet she has built her life on. Her search for knowledge began when she was eight years old, the first time she questioned God and the world she lives in, and has led her here. And when she's on a train the next day, sitting across from Mulder's sleeping form, she wonders if this is the right place to look.

Mulder squints one eye open, watching the little doctor, or maybe little spy, as she watches things he can't see pass by outside the window. She's got bright, curious eyes; he'd seen it in how intensely she argued with him about the existence of life beside their own, in the way she fixed him in her gaze like she was trying to figure him out. He's still doing the same; he's just as curious about her as she seems to be about the world around them.

He rolls onto his side, reaches across the space between them and carefully taps her left knee — the one she favors, pretty heavily by the worn look of the top of her cane. "A doctor with a gimp leg?" He asks, maybe a little bit teasingly just to see the reaction he'll elicit from her, when she looks at him.

Dana is used to the questions about her disability, but she's also used to the disapproval or doubt in her soundness as a physician that tends to come with it. Mulder, sprawled across the seat in front of her, seems purely curious. She blinks down at him, finding it strange because when they're standing, he's so much taller, and folds her hands on top of her knee.

"Polio," she explains. "When I was a girl. One of my brothers nearly died, I came up crippled. That's the reason I went into medicine, actually."

Mulder nods, like he understands. Later, in a dark hotel room, he'll tell her how the loss of his sister sent him running to solve mysteries that others wouldn't care about; they might just be more similar than either of them thinks. Their innate curiosity, longing for knowledge, to understand, draws them together. They both want to understand each other, as well.

Dana isn't an investigator, but Mulder is a mystery she wants to solve. He touches her gently, hesitantly, when she impulsively flies into his arms, he flinches at the flames when the hotel lights on fire and then turns angry. His entire face lights up in a tremendous, all-consuming grin when she starts laughing in disbelief in the cemetery and he catches her when her cane slips and she loses her footing on the wet terrain. He calls her by her last name, not her title or "Miss" like she's used to hearing; it reminds her of how people have always referred to her father.

For a moment, it's like there's no war; she forgets about Bill Jr. deployed with the Navy, forgets about Charlie deserting from boot camp and never calling. She forgets, for a second, that she is not and will never be normal or whole, and that she's caught up in a mystery that might put her in danger.

Scully argues with him, almost constantly. She's the skeptical daughter of a Navy captain who's spent her life fighting for a place in a profession that would have her be only a nurse, secondary to everyone else. She questions everything, won't believe a word of his theories. But she listens. She doesn't disregard him, doesn't tell him he'd be better off codebreaking or spying on the Axis; she wants to learn, wants scientific answers for unscientific questions, and when she's caught in a corner, barely staying upright because it's muddy out and she's staring down into an empty grave, she laughs. She doesn't rail against her own lack of knowledge, doesn't argue the way she's been since the moment they met. She looks up at him, something intense shining in her eyes, and she laughs. Mulder cannot comprehend her.

She loses her cane trying to keep up with him in the woods, trying to either hide from or find the source of the blinding lights hovering over the forest. He's not sure which it is; if she thinks they're in danger, or if she wants to know more. Billy Miles, comatose only hours before, is in the light, with Theresa Nemman in his arms. The wind picks up, the light blinds him, and he's not sure where Scully is or if she's seeing this; he hopes she is.

She shouts his name over the sound of the wind whipping through the branches, and he finds her limping through the undergrowth, shining her light toward the ground. He drops to his knees and digs around in the brush for a minute, counting the seconds. He wonders if his watch will have lost time again. Scully balances herself against his shoulder, staring up at him with wide eyes.

"It was incredible," he breathes, and she nods.

Her mind is playing air raid sirens, instincts shouting at her to get out of there, that the light came from a foreign plane or weaponry; nothing she's ever heard of can hover that way, though, and she knows Mulder is thinking of flying saucers. She can see it in his eyes, feels it mirrored in herself when she sees the sheriff's boy and the medical examiner's daughter, alive and whole. It's absolute wonder.

She came here looking for answers, but found something she cannot explain. No answer, just more questions. She's found a mystery, or maybe two. Maybe a friend. Maybe more.

He knows, as well as he knows the back of his own hand, that there are, in fact, more important things to worry about. Abductions by extraterrestrials, experiments done by the government or secret services, should be secondary to winning the war, but what if the two go hand in hand? What if the same is true of him and Scully; she's small and curious and determined enough to be a soldier herself, fits into the mysteries he's after like she was born to be there.

Neither of them expected to find each other in the midst of the tension wrought by the war. Maybe neither of them knew where to look.

[strawberriesinmoominvalley]

how to write a panic attack

something like this has probably been made before, but i thought i’d throw my two pence in. so, here’s how to write a panic attack by an anxious mess

what is a panic attack?

a panic attack is where someone feels terrified and scared, without being in any real danger. they mainly occur with people who have anxiety disorders and/or ptsd, although they can happen to anyone.

however, a panic attack isn’t just fear. it causes a physical response. you brain perceives a threat, and goes into fight/flight/freeze. adrenaline is released, your body prepares to react. you become focused on the danger, because your brain has seen a threat and is trying to protect you from the non-existent danger.

what causes them?

panic attacks can happen for no reason, however there is usually a cause. these can be anything, from “this room is loud” to “someone just triggered me by mentioning something to do with my trauma” to “i read something about a phobia i have”. 

if someone is already stressed, or tired, or just not having a good day, that will increase the likeliness of a panic attack. something that might not cause a panic attack on a normal day might cause one on a bad day. sometimes lots of things build up until your brain can’t take it anymore. 

triggers can seem very small. for example, if you’re talking about trauma, it could be the abuser’s name, or a smell that reminds you of something. they can be things that scare a character, or a song -  anything, really. they can seem insignificant, but can cause catastrophic consequences. 

symptoms

everyone experiences panic attacks differently. symptoms are a grab bag and no two people will experience them the same. most people will experience shortness of breath and a racing heart, but apart from that it’s really up to you. the combinations can be weird and strange but hey, that’s anxiety. i’m not going to be able to list every singly symptom here, but i’ll try to list as many as i can:

crippling fear - it comes on the tin, but it can vary. sometimes you’re just terrified, sometimes it feels like nothing good is ever going to happen again, and the world is always going to feel this way. you feel impending doom and fear and it is Bad

being convinced you are going to die. there isn’t really a better way to describe this, you just know this is the end and it is awful

feeling like you are out of control. this usually comes with the more severe ones, as it can feel like you are going crazy

a racing heart - your body feels like it needs to fight or flee from something, so it is preparing to do so

shortness of breath - this is terrifying. it can feel like something is pressing into your chest, and your throat is closing up. you can choke and gasp and never feel like you have enough air. this usually causes you to hyperventilate

dizziness and feeling lightheaded - this usually comes from hyperventilating. your character may hand to sit down suddenly, or, if they’re stubborn like me and refuse to for whatever reason, just dramatically faint

feeling nauseous - most people will feel sick/have terrible stomach cramps, but not throw up. i have, but it’s happened only once

hot/cold flashes

sweating

goosebumps

chest pains - from my experience, your chest just aches and feels heavy, although sometimes it can cause you to double over in pain

crying - anyone can cry during a panic attack. it can cause them to hyperventilate worse, because it’s hard to breathe when you’re sobbing

screaming - sometimes anxiety can come out of anger. they might scream incoherently at people, and can completely wreck their voice in doing so

loss of speech - this can be awful, especially if you’re trying to communicate to someone what’s happening

shaking/trembling - everyone shakes when they’re anxious, but imagine your whole body doing it. you can’t control it, and can barely control your actions

ringing/buzzing ears - this can be mild, or to the point where you can barely hear

talking to yourself/babbling/repeating phrases - your speech isn’t going to be functional. at most, answering yes/no questions and maybe being able to partially describe what’s going on. but mostly, think “ohmygodohmygodohmygod” or “fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck”

freezing - the character might lose the ability to move anywhere. and i mean, they could be in the middle of a road and just freeze. it’s not good

pacing/fidgeting/not being able to stay still - they might throw things, jump around, might even partake in self-injurious behaviour

spiralling thoughts - even if there isn’t a trigger, the character’s inner monologue is going to loop and be incoherent. they’re going to repeat the same thoughts over and over and over. sometimes, when they’ve had it enough, they may also have the “not this again” complaint before the spiralling starts

feeling weak, like you might collapse

derealisation - feeling like everything around you isn’t real, and feeling detached from your surroundings. it feels like your in a dream-like state, or experiencing everything behind glass. it is terrifying. this can cause you to panic more, and may even hurt yourself trying to sense the world

depersonalisation - feeling detached from your body and like you aren’t real. imagine staring in the mirror and not recognise who’s staring back at you. again, terrifying and can lead to harming yourself

these aren’t even all the symptoms you can experience. there’s a lot, and can vary depending on the cause of the panic attack and the severity. for example, i tend to only derealise/depersonalise during a trauma-induced panic attack. symptoms change over time, and some symptoms may only happen during one panic attack and then never again.

writing the panic attack

now, i’m going to break this down into three sections - before the panic attack, during, and after

before the panic attack

first you need to start with the cause, which i’ve already spoken about. once you have that, you need to slowly increase the symptoms. it takes about 30 seconds for the anxiety to set in, so during that time you have to slowly introduce symptoms. if the character realises what’s going on, they may try to use coping mechanisms to stop it, or at the very least make it nicer (i’m going to talk about coping mechanisms a bit later). maybe they can feel their heart pounding, or all their senses sharpen, or their thoughts start to sharpen. it isn’t instant, there’s a build up to it.

during this time, they might run. this is extremely dangerous. they will not have the mental capacity then to think about danger. they could run into roads, hurt themselves in some way or just get lost. this is the one of the only times where a person can override the person’s wishes not to be touched (the other being if they are hurting themselves). them being safe is the highest priority.

during the panic attack

the thing about panic attacks is that they snowball. they get worse and worse until you manage to calm down or just get too exhausted to carry on. panic attacks are terrifying, but the symptoms make it twice as scary. it’s not fun.

you cannot reason your way out of them. your character is going to latch onto worst-case scenarios and nothing will ever be good again. they’re going to spiral, think of the same things over and over and over. they’re not going to think “oh no, i’m panicking”. they might have some control over their thoughts if this is their fiftieth as opposed to their third, but they’re still going to be pretty incoherent.

if this is their first one, they’re going to call an ambulance. i’m not joking. a lot of people have no idea what’s going on, and think they’re dying. it takes a few times for them to piece together what’s going on, and realise they’re having a panic attack. even if they know exactly what’s happening and it’s a regular occurrence, it is still terrifying. at one point, i was having panic attacks ever single day. i knew what was happening, but it was still awful.

the way your character can react can change how it presents. for example, if your character is stubborn, or feels like they’re “weak” because of it (which is totally untrue), maybe they’ll try to hide it. i get dizzy when i have a panic attack, and i used to hide it until suddenly i fainted. so from an external perspective, i was fine and then suddenly i was on the floor - although if someone knows you well, they can work it out regardless, so that can be a nice way to incorporate another character.

maybe your character doesn’t want to address the fact they’re having a panic attack. they could be visibly having one, but point-blank refuse to admit it. this can help show personality, while showing that they’re struggling.

panic attacks can last a few minutes. they can last hours. they are described as brief, but my shortest one has been around 20 minutes - which really isn’t short. my longest was 2 hours, and unsurprisingly, it was my worst. when you’re reaching the 45 minute mark, the format changes. then, it’s more like waves - you get really really scared and it feels awful, then you slowly start to calm down before it starts again.

after the panic attack

once the character has started calming down, whether because they’ve realised it’s been hours and they’re not dying, pure tiredness or getting symptoms under control, they are going to be exhausted.  i’ve passed out from exhaustion before. i’ve fallen asleep in awkward paces (like the middle of the street) because it is so tiring. if they’re outside/at work/school/etc. send them home (this doesn’t happen in real life much, but you can make your world a nice, supportive place). they won’t be able to do anything more taxing than making a cup of tea and cuddling up somewhere. they might not even be able to do that. they might even need someone to grab a blanket for them because the effort is too much.

most people feel more calm afterwards, but you can get awful stomach cramps from the anxiety. but most of the time, all they’re going to feel is tired. don’t put them into a battle. maybe if it’s the morning, they might be able to do something not too taxing in the evening. but most of the time, they’re going to be wiped out.

coping mechanisms

coping mechanisms 90% of the time won’t fix it. a lot of the time, you just have to wait it out. knowing what’s happening helps a lot, and if a character has experienced panic attacks a lot they might understand what’s going on. however, this isn’t always the case. i derealise and depersonalise a lot during panic attacks, but that means that a lot of the time i don’t know what’s happening. it’s terrifying. knowing is a thousand times better than not knowing what’s happening.

obviously there are many breathing techniques - for example, inhale for 4 seconds, hold for 7, exhale for 8. there are grounding techniques - 5 things you can see, 4 things you can gear, 3 things you can touch, 2 things you can smell, 1 thing you can taste. however, i often struggle to remember these because my brain gets pretty frazzled. but they DO work, if you want to include those.

a lot of people say you should hug someone, and to that, i have one word - NO. most people do not want to be touched in that situation, and hugging, especially if it’s a trauma-induced panic attack, could induce flashbacks and cause them more harm. some people do want to be hugged. some people want to be left alone. some people want to be guided through breathing, or given water, or talked to, or to hold a a hand. but!!!! please make your character ask. if that’s all you take away from this, just remember that you have to ask before you touch someone!

everyone copes differently, so bear that in mind

i want to include friends/family/significant others. how do i do that?

if the person is with someone who they feel responsible for, or have never reacted like this around them, they may try and hide what’s happening. this can make it worse, and it is less fun. i don’t want to have a panic attack around my younger sibling, so i try and hide it for as long as i can. so that’s something to think about.

if you want a cute moment where a s/o saves the day, this is not going to be it. a hug from someone nice isn’t going to magically cure the panic attack. hell, a hug might not even help at all. panic attacks are messy and awful. they can give them water, maybe talk to them, try to help them. honestly? the person is going to feel inadequate. there isn’t too much you can do, unfortunately, and they’re going to probably end up sitting there repeating the same few things over and over. but you know what? a love interest sticking with someone during the frightening, ugly hours of terror is sexy.

if you want cuddles, think about afterwards. as i have said, the person is going to be exhausted, and a lot of people will need comfort afterwards. they may even cry a lot, because they feel awful. if they’re not up to that, well maybe your other character can tuck them into bed, or run them a bath. you can have sweet moments, but wait until afterwards for the other to look after them.

-

there we go! i hope i’ve covered everything! if you need help writing scenes like this, message me - i’d be honoured to help!

[amethyst-crystalfly]

“Fever Dream”

Pairing | Todoroki Shoto x f reader

Themes | Hurt/comfort, fluff, tooth rotting fluff, fever comfort

warning | migraine attacks? mentions of passing out ( I am sorry I don’t know if they really need warnings, but just in case since this is my first time posting a fic like this)

Authour’s note: Hi guys! This is my new secondary blog for all stuff anime related. Feel free to leave a comment or drop an ask for a fic yu might be interested in. This is written from my personal experience with migraines, but you might have had different experiences, but I hope you enjoy this! Thank you so much for reading Love you!

wc | 2454 

You stirred on your bed to the sound of your morning alarm going off. As you reached for the digital clock to make it stop you felt a dull headache building up.

“Ugh it is way too early for this right now” you thought to yourself as you groggily sat up in your dorm room bed. You were an aspiring hero you surely couldn’t let a small headache get in the way of your hero course classes. So, you stood up with resolve to get through this day and tried to block out the steadily increasing headache.

You went about your usual routine and promptly met your dorm mates for breakfast after getting ready for classes. You greeted them and tried your best to participate in conversations despite of the uneasiness.

Class started as usual and you decided to keep yourself busy in order to keep your mind off the headache. However, your eyes were burning up, they felt prickly. Every time you closed your eyes it felt like someone was pricking needles at your eyes. It was Mike sensei’s class and he had instructed everyone to silent read the short story he had just explained. You rested your aching forehead against your palms to support them while trying your best to read the instructed chapter. You could feel a fever coming, these were your usual symptoms before you got a fever. You sensed a light poke on your back and knew it was Mina calling you to say something, that is how you guys talked in between classes.

“hey are you alright? You seem a bit off” Mina whispered “you are usually more interactive in classes, is everything alright?”

“I am fine just a bit tiered I guess” you assured her.

She was not exactly convinced but she decided that she would save it for later. However,Mina was not the only one who had noticed this change, you had received concerned glances from a lot of your classmates today through out the classes. One person seemed to be particularly more concerned, Todoroki Shoto.

After English lessons the class was finally dismissed for lunch, much to your relief.

“I’ll join you guys at the table! I have some work to do before I have lunch” you told your friends

“Okay but hurry up and come soon!” Hagakure waved (or at least you assumed she did from the movement of her clothes)

“I will save a seat for you” Jirou offered as she followed the other to the cafeteria.

Once they left you let out a heavy sigh and started organizing your desk like you usually do before you join your friends for lunch in the school cafeteria.

“y/n-Chan are you feeling fine? Your eyes look glossy” You looked up to meet Ochaco’s concerned gaze.

You chuckled and yet again gave words of false reassurance to your friend, but even you knew you were pretty far off from fine right now.

“let’s go have lunch” you said after finishing organizing your desk for the next class after lunch. But as you stood up you managed to knock off your water bottle from the desk as you nearly fell over from the sudden dizziness and you had to grip the edge of your desk to keep from falling on your face.  

“y/n Chan!” Uraraka gasped and rushed to help you stabilize yourself but the moment she touched your arm her hands involuntarily jerked back. “Oh my gosh! You are burning up!”

You were still attempting to stabilize your blurry vision and push down the boughs of dizziness “I-I am fine” you managed to mumble out.

It felt more like an attempt to convince yourself than to reassure her. Most of the class had already dispersed to the cafeteria, save for Mina and Ochaco who had stayed back to accompany you to the cafeteria and Todoroki lingering by the class room door, you weren’t sure why he stayed back.

“y/n Chan you should go to the infirmary! We will inform Aizawa Sensei” Mina said

“Yes, I will also give you my notes if you need! Just please take some rest” Ochaco chimed in, worry lacing her words.

Todoroki was silently observing this from distance, he wanted to reach out and help you but he was unsure about how to approach you. Upon seeing how delirious your condition was he decided to put his hesitance aside and he walked over to your desk.

“I can escort you to the infirmary, if you want that is, I..” he paused as if to find the correct word “I would be glad to help you”

Mina and Ochaco shared a secretive look at this and almost giggled. “Oh no they are being too obvious! This is so embarrassing!!” you internally screamed in embarrassment as your cheeks heated up further at Todoroki’s words and blush bloomed across your features.

“Yes, that would be perfect Todoroki kun! Please assist her!” Mina exclaimed and Ochaco offered her words of agreement.

You could not let this happen, you did not want Todoroki Shoto, the boy you secretly admired so much, to see you like this. What if he thought that you were weak? You are all training to be heroes, right? weakness is not acceptable! …right? Your mind was swimming not only with uncertainties but also with dizziness. You looked up to meet Todoroki’s eyes, and you saw worry and tenderness in them, for you and your heart almost melted at that. But no, you needed to attend these classes they were important how could you miss them; you would be falling behind. You attempted to let go of the sides of the desk you had been clutching for support and straighten up “Todoroki Kun I- “your voice trailed off as black spots appeared in your vision and you saw Todoroki Shoto’s beautiful face growing hazy, the sounds and worried voices around you felt so distant as unconsciousness took over.

You felt firm hands holding you, as if someone was carrying you somewhere, was this Todoroki Shoto? You brain felt too fuzzy to understand. Your one arm was draped over the persons neck and your head was resting on their shoulder. You semi-consciously nuzzled your face in the crook of his neck finding the warmth there. You could feel the person tense up for a moment, at that you muttered an incoherent apology before fading back to unconsciousness again.  

The next time you woke up it was on one of the infirmary beds. You groaned at the sensation of the bright lights hitting your eyes and you turned to your side and curled up, pressing your palms to your eyes to protect them from the lights. The fever had induced a migraine which was your prime tormentor right now. When a migraine attack hit you, lights became your worst enemies as they made the migraine more unbearable. Recovery girl walked in moments later with some medicine from the other room for your fever. She helped you sit up and gave you the medicines with the gentle care of a grandmother. She had the lights dimed on your request and listened to your concerns.

“I am sorry darling but I can’t heal your migraine head ache, since it is not a physical injury, but I will give you some meds to help you with the fever. I suggest you take an off for a few days and get plenty of rest” You simply nodded as she got up to go write you a leave note. “and oh! The young man who brought you to the infirmary said he would drop by at dispersal before heading for the dorm, you can go back with him since you are still not stable enough, he should be here in a while” she informed you while leaving the room.

That caught your attention. "Todoroki brought me here? Did he indeed carry me to the infirmary?? And he was coming back?? To check on me???" You felt yourself turn into a blushing mess and you buried your face in your hands. “It’s nothing” you told yourself “He is probably just doing it out of the goodness of his heart not like he won’t do the same for anyone else, he was a good guy, it is probably nothing else, I should not get hopeful” Your train of thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. And you found Todoroki standing there.

“Hello y/n Chan, are you feeling better?”

“Yes somewhat…” you paused looking down “I-I am sorry for all the trouble...”

“please don’t apologize! It is no problem at all really” He assures you with a gentle smile. That smile that damned smile, it made you lose all focus.  Gosh if only you could kiss him--that thought itself startled you so much that you stood up from the bed with a jerk. The sudden movement made your head hurt and you winced in pain.

“what happened?” He seemed confused

“oh, it’s nothing!” you tried to laugh it off “we should, umm go, I think I would feel better in my room”

He motioned for you to lead the way. You both made your way towards the exit of the school building in silence.

“Did anything important happen in class today? Any new announcements?” You asked breaking the silence

He hesitated for a moment before saying “I made a separate list of home works for you and I umm also printed a copy of my notes for you…so umm…you don’t need to worry; you can find everything there”  

It made your heart soar, you were genuinely touched by this but you were also surprised “Todoroki kun thank you so much, I-I really don’t have words…thank you so much!!”

You saw his ears turn pink at that and a faint blush started forming on his cheeks, “it is alright, you don’t need to thank me” he said. You caught yourself staring at him and quickly averted your gaze.

As you stepped outside the school building, you groaned at the sun mercilessly shining. You hid your face in your hands again.

“Are you alright y/n Chan?” He asked concerned, lightly touching your arm.

“It’s just the sun…bright light worsens my migraine” The school corridor was cool and fairly dark hence it wasn’t that bad but stepping out in the sun was not the same.

“let’s go, I got this” you said without removing your hands.

You felt Shoto place his one hand around your shoulder, holding you steadily as he said “yes, let’s go”

He guided you towards the dorms and you kept shielding not just your eyes from the sun but also using it as an excuse to hide your blushing face.

You slumped a bit against him in relief was once you entered the dorms and the cool atmosphere greeted you. The hallway was thankfully empty much to your relief, if your friends saw you like this with Todoroki, there will be no end to their teasing.

Todoroki’s hand shifted from around your shoulder to the small of your back, ready to support you in case you stumble. The air between the two of you was tense, it felt like there were things which you both wanted to say but no one spoke. Your heart was hammering in your chest as he led you towards your dorm room. As you reached the dorm room, your hands were clammy as you tried to fish your keys out from one of your skirt pockets. He also seemed rather unusually clumsy while he was searching for the notes in his bag. He handed them over to you gently, and your fingers brushed. You were both alone in the hallway and it was steadily getting more awkward. As you were searching for things to say standing in the doorway, Todoroki broke the silence.

“y/n Chan, I have something to tell you...”

your heart sped up but you tried to appear calm and you casually leaned against the doorframe as you said “Yes, sure, go ahead”

“I…I am usually not very good with expressing feelings with words, but I want to tell you, today when I saw you like that it really got me worried, I know sickness and injuries are a part of life, especially with the nature of the work we are aiming for, it will probably be fairly common” he paused and took a deep inhale before continuing, still not meeting your eyes “What I am trying to say is, I want to be there for you, I know you are strong and you don’t need to be protected, but I want to fight by your side and always have your back, and if something gets you down I want to help you up…” he stops and sighs and shakes his head mumbling something to himself before finally meeting your gaze, “Y/n Chan I like you, a lot, I probably am not making sense right n—”

You cut him off by and cupping the side of his face in your palm and reaching up on your tip toes and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “I like you too Shoto kun, a lot”

His face turns bright red at this and you giggle at that.

“really?” he asks surprised

“umhmm” you nod suppressing a smile as you step closer to him.

He tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear with an amused smile, as if he couldn't quite believe what you just said. He gently takes your hand in his. And presses a soft kiss on your knuckle and says “You should change and get some rest now, we can get back to this conversation later, I will be right back and bring you something to eat since you haven’t had lunch, okay?”

You nodded smiling at him. As he left and you closed your door you nearly jumped out of joy, your heart was about to burst. You washed up and quickly changed into an oversized t-shirt and a pair of shorts. You were starting to feel slightly cold again which probably meant the fever was coming back but you were far too giddy with joy to care. You opened your door upon hearing a knock. Todoroki greeted you with a smile and placed a steaming bowl of Shoba on your table.

“I always have some Shoba in my fridge, so I got you some, I should go now…I am probably interrupting your rest, take care okay?”

You simply walked towards him and wrapped your arms around him in a hug wordlessly and nuzzled your face against his chest. That earned you a soft laugh from him, which you absolutely cherished, and he wrapped his arms around you too.

“Shoto kun?” he smiled at the sound of his name on your lips

“hmm?”

“Stay with me”

[jigscw]

PSYCHOPATHOLOGY ,  aka various ( would be ) diagnoses, precipitating factors, perpetuating factors, and various components of billy’s psyche. because i had the time this morning and i’m a psych-nerd. 

disclaimer:  as always, the following is my interpretation and how i write bill. it is not reflective of real people who are diagnosed with the particular disorders below or who have endured the types of trauma listed below. everyone is different. every disorder is different. everyone’s particular set of symptoms and presentation is different. 

OFFICIAL DIAGNOSES + particular symptoms:

borderline personality disorder ( undiagnosed + untreated ) 

patterns of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterized by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation 

identity disturbance ( markedly and persistently unstable self image or sense of self )

impulsivity in at least two areas that are potentially self damaging ( sex, recklessness, elopement from foster / group homes, fighting ) 

instability of mood and heightened reactivity 

inappropriate, intense feelings of anger or difficulty controlling anger

transient, stress-related paranoid ideation 

while bill does meet the above criteria for BPD, he doesn’t typically align with the “typical” aspects of BPD that involve self harm or suicidal ideation. for him, most of those aspects will reflect outwardly as opposed to inwardly. military training ( discussed later ) amplifies this severely. 

traumatic brain injury ( diagnosed during season two ) ,  read more here.

 a bump, blow, or jolt to the head or a penetrating head injury that disrupts the normal function of the brain. can be mild or severe and cause symptoms ranging from brief changes in mental status or emotion, to extended periods of unconsciousness or amnesia after the injury. symptoms generally fall into four categories:

thinking and remembering:  difficulty thinking clearly, difficulty concentrating, difficulty remembering new information.

physical:  headaches, dizziness, sensitivity to noise or light

emotional:  instability, more emotional, nervousness and anxiety, loss of emotional control  ( aggression ) 

sleep:  sleeping less than usual, trouble falling asleep

trauma history

exposure to drugs / alcohol while in utero

parental abandonment 

frequent involvement with the foster system, changing of environments, group homes, etc.

victim of grooming and attempted molestation 

victim of child abuse ( physical, emotional, attempted sexual ) 

military combat 

this is some of it. there are more things here and there that definitely apply heavily, but these are the main ones. billy’s childhood was extremely unstable and at times volatile and rarely secure or safe, it’s not conducive to the type of healthy development that a child needs. the instability in both environment and lack of steady parental / healthy adult relationships has a severe impact on his functioning. he never learned healthy or proper family dynamics or relationships. he never learned how adults are supposed to act towards one another. he learned how to survive and how to fend for himself and how to make sure that no one victimized him again. 

i would also like to point out, during this stage, that while there were numerous instances during his childhood adolescence where bill was exposed to and underwent heavy trauma --- it doesn’t excuse the things that he did later in life. plenty of people undergo severe trauma during childhood and they grow up and turn out into fully functioning, healthy people. the key for bill that likely prevented that possibility is (a) the fact that he never got the help that he needed, and (b) his military service.

military service / training.

i’m not a military expert so i don’t know much about the training that marines go through ( let alone those chosen for the special ops squad(s) similar to cerberus ), but i do know that it’s intense. and it’s meant to make you withstand all manners of torture and prevent the emotional turmoil that comes along with taking a life and losing people you become close to. because of his “i take care of myself and can’t really trust anyone” attitude that he likely got while growing up, bill excels at this. he is literally the perfect kid to mold into a soldier. he craves familial relationships. he craves structure. he craves purpose. and he’s just “selfish” enough to put himself first to climb the ranks. and that’s quite honestly what they did with him. they molded him into the perfect soldier. the perfect attack dog. and whatever little pieces he had in his life that were there before his training that could have pulled him back ( including, at some point, the castle family ) started to fall away and his own need for survival became too great because the stakes became higher. rawlins had him under his thumb. he knew rawlins could expose him at any given moment and ruin any life that he could make for himself after his service. none of what he did following cerberus, or during cerberus, was right. or okay. or at all the kind of thing that could or should be excused, but this is a kid who always needed to make sure he had an exit strategy. and that’s the mentality he took into his service.

IN SUMMARY,  billy has a really long and rough history of trauma and mental health considerations that impact his particular situation that vastly contributed to him being the antagonist that we know and love. all of those things are really important to keep in mind, but none of it excuses the things that he did, the people that he hurt, and the lives that he took. 

[cyclopstm]

                         DISABILITY && MENTAL HEALTH

This post will cover items such as disabilities, mental health, PTSD and trauma in relation to Scott. These are things which are either canon for him, or headcanons I want to pay more attention to on my blog.

I do not have any personal experience with any of the items I will address in this post, which means that most (if not all) of my information is gained through reading and research online. If there are items I missed out on or have described incorrectly, you may contact me about this to kindly help me figure out a new/better way to put things into words. It’s in no way my intention to upset anyone, or bring forth wrong information.

To me, it just feels like Scott is a good opportunity to improve the representation of characters and people who deal with visual impairment because the narrative that disability is binary caused that most blind characters in popular media have no vision at all. Blind characters in heroic roles like Daredevil, have powers that completely compensate for their blindness while blind people who don’t have these compensations are usually portrayed as helpless.

As a team leader and a superhero, Scott offers a good opportunity to include people who are visually impaired, yet often ignored or left out of the heroic narrative.

Needless to say, do NOT reblog this post && don’t interact with it if you’re not a RP blog.

                                             _____________________________

TABLE OF CONTENTS : 1. Scott’s brain trauma and injury 2. Scott’s PTSD during his youth 3. Symptoms and signs of PTSD for Scott 4. Scott is (legally) blind 5. Scott cannot distinguish colours 6. How Scott deals with his visual impairment 7. The X-Mansion and dealing with trauma 8. Additional notes

                                      ________________________

1. SCOTT’S BRAIN TRAUMA AND INJURY When Scott was a young boy, he went on a travel with his parents and his little brother Alex. The family’s private jet was ambushed by an alien Shi’ar scouting ship. The boys lost their parents on that unfortunate day and in the crash, Scott took a hit to the head after his mutant powers manifested for the first time and allowed Scott to break his fall and allow him and Alex to survive. The head injury Scott suffered on that day would permanently disable the part of Scott’s brain which would have enabled him to control his optic blasts. Additionally, Scott (as well as Alex) suffered traumatic amnesia regarding the accident. Unlike his brother, Scott was forced to remain hospitalized for up to a year.

As a teenager, Scott began to suffer from severe headaches and he was sent to a specialist (Mr. Sinister in disguise) who provided him with lenses made of ruby-quartz. Scott’s mutant power erupted from his eyes as an uncontrollable blast of optic force and the only means to control it ever since have been the ruby-quartz lenses Sinister gave him. Sinister knew the lenses would help due to experiments and research he had been doing on the boy while Scott lived at the orphanage where Sinister had feigned being the owner.

2. SCOTT’S POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER DURING HIS YOUTH After losing his parents and waking up alone at the hospital after the plane crash, Scott was placed in the State Home for Foundlings, an orphanage in Omaha (Nebraska) where he was subjected to batteries of tests and experiments by the orphanage’s owner, Mr. Milbury (alias, Mr. Sinister). He placed mental blocks on Scott and took on the role of ‘Lefty’, who was Scott’s roommate and bully at the orphanage. During his time spent at the orphanage, Scott was subjected to several occasions which would leave him traumatized — such as the attempt of one of the other orphaned boys at taking his own life, and Scott’s failed attempt at saving him. Any time anyone came close to adopting Scott, Sinister intervened.

At some point, Scott demolished a crane with his optic blast, by accident. He had saved a crowd of people by using his blast again to destroy the crane before it would crush the people, but they believed he was out to kill them and chased the young mutant boy. Scott woke the attention of a mutant criminal who sought to use Scott’s powers in his crimes, but abused the kid when Summers refused. At that time, he had also attracted the attention of Charles Xavier who tracked down Scott and took him in as the first of his team of X-Men...

3. SYMPTOMS OF SCOTT’S PTSD — Reliving the traumatic event (during his childhood) :: as a boy, Scott was fond of airplanes and dreamed of becoming a pilot himself one day. But when he was taken to an air show by one of the orphanage’s nurses, he had a violent traumatic reaction in the middle of the show, reciting things he otherwise doesn’t consciously remember. — Negative Thoughts and Feelings :: Scott often deals with feelings of anger, guilt, fear or numbness. He’s prone to blame himself for things going wrong on missions with the X-Men. When someone comes to pass, he’s quick to take up responsibility and the blame for it, and occasionally even deals with survivor’s guilt. Scott also feels cut off from his friends and family and hardly keeps much interest for day-to-day activities. He hardly does them to relax, but rather only when they become necessary. — Avoidance :: Scott feels like he has to keep busy at all times, he doesn’t want to think or talk about anything in relation to his past, feels emotionally cut off from his feelings, struggles to express his emotions or affection towards others and thus comes across as numb and cold and very serious and occasionally does risky things which could be self-destructive or reckless. He’s often the first in line to sacrifice himself for the X-Men not only because he’s their leader, but also because he has little to no value for his own life. — Disturbed sleep and lack of sleep. — Taking risks and hypervigilance. — Intrusive thoughts. — Nightmares. — Trust issues. — “No one understands.”-mentality. — The sense of never being at peace.

4. SCOTT IS (LEGALLY) BLIND While Scott was born with perfectly normal eyesight, and perfect vision, he no longer has the ability to see without his ruby-quartz lenses ever since his optic blasts came to manifest. Only ruby-quartz can keep the optic blasts under control, meaning that any other means of vision such as regular glasses or lenses would not be of help for Scott. Scott literally can’t see without his ruby-quartz shades. Opening his eyes would prove incredibly destructive to his nearest surroundings.

Someone who is completely blind can’t see any light or form. Of the people with eye disorders, only about 15% can see nothing at all. If you’re legally blind, you can still see, just not that clearly. Normal vision is 20/20. That means you can clearly see an object 20 feet away. If you’re legally blind, your vision is 20/200 or less in your beter eye or your field of vision is less than 20 degrees.

In addition to being unable to distinguish colors due to the red tint in his glasses, they also reduce his low-light vision, which means Scott deals with low vision.

5. SCOTT CANNOT DISTINGUISH COLOURS I’m not using the term colorblindless in this post for the main reason that Google gives me too many search results in relation to racism, and I do not intend to use a term that has a double meaning that could be taken the wrong way.

Scott’s ruby-quartz lenses cause him to see the world through a veil of red. The lenses are tinted in red which alters Scott’s general, every day perception of the world. He sees the world in shades of grey, white, black and red and can no longer distinguish any other colours. Maybe rather than ‘colourblindness’, Scott deals with something alike to monochromacy. Though, Scott’s monochromacy is perhaps not of a kind that has been officially diagnosed in real life cases before.

The comics and movies rarely acknowledge Scott’s eyesight aside from him claiming to have an ‘eye condition’ as an excuse for him to wear sunglasses all the time. Scott’s adaptations to being unable to distinguish different colours would be mostly rather subtle and maybe it doesn’t inherently add onto the story a comic book or movie wants to tell, but they shouldn’t be ignored in how I wish to bring Scott in my writing...

6. HOW SCOTT DEALS WITH HIS VISUAL IMPAIRMENT — High contrast text and browser extensions for reading. — Color coding his outfits. He labels them with what color they are and organizes his closet by items that go together. — As a prodigy at billiards, Scott has a special billiards set adjusted to his specific needs. — Large prints for letters, books, digital fonts, etc. — Increased brightness on any of his devices’ screens. — Assistance from ‘self-driving’ tech when flying the Blackbird or riding his motorcycle. He knows the majority of controls through muscle memory by now. — Assistive technology to improve contrast, especially at night. — Scott owns a touch-based Rubik’s Cube. — Help from his closest friends.

7. THE X-MANSION AND DEALING WITH TRAUMA Scott and Ororo both (among others), are hyper aware of the traumas some of their students have experienced. They recognize behaviours and reactions in trauma survivors because they have been in such a position themselves as well. They made sure the school has a clear set of rules and policies on the safety and comfort of students. The school faculty received training in mental health first aid, there’s places students can retreat to when they feel anxious or suffer from power meltdown.

People like Scott, Jean and Rogue would know how to handle students who have gone through different types of abuse. As trauma survivors themselves, they’d take extra steps to reassure students who have every reason to distrust adults. They would announce themselves when approaching students from behind, maintain wide personal space bubbles and refrain from initiating physical contact such as hugs or touching students without asking them first. They see there’s no use in raising your voice to the kids, and won’t tollerate any kind of jokes about trauma. Scott is rumoured to be very strict on the rules of the house concerning mental health.

8. ADDITIONAL NOTES While Scott is aware that there is no shame in any of what he deals with every day, he still keeps it under wraps a lot. He doesn’t ever want for his visual impairment or his trauma to become his only and main personality trait other people associate with him. This is why a lot of people may not even know that he is dealing with these things on the daily. He’s very subtle about everything and only those who get to know him better may begin to see and notice things which indicate that he’s disabled. Scott has grown so adjusted to living with his disabilities that they commonly no longer cause him trouble.

The only people who know Scott is visually impaired because he told them himself are Charles (confidant and father-figure), Jean (lover, the person he maybe trusts more than anyone else), Hank (as the resident scientist), Ororo (as his fellow team leader) and Emma Frost (as his therapist).

Scott has been able to take therapy sessions with Charles during his early years, and later on with Emma Frost. Jean has also helped him an incredibly great deal on coping with his trauma and PTSD, lack of self-esteem and dealing with his emotions and expressing them more openly.

To this day, Scott still suffers from migraines and occasional moments of memory loss. His brain injury does not always allow him to maintain or store knowledge accurately. His migraines are a result of his optic blast building up surplus energy. When Scott can’t use his optic blast regularly, he will build up a surplus energy which manifests into migraines.

[interstellix]

november; epilepsy awareness month

since november is epilepsy awareness month, I’ve been considering dropping something like this for a while now, though hesitated since I wasn’t sure how many it would reach out to. however, not too long ago, I got the request of writing about it and explain what it is like to live with the condition (thank you anon :’)) and i figured that, really, there’s no harm in doing it. so, i decided to put this out there and hope that this reaches out to as many people as possible. admittedly, this ended up longer than planned but if you still decide to read it, thank you, big kudos to you :)

before actually going on, i may add that epilepsy, like most conditions, is something that varies from person to person so part of this is written based on my own experience with it - if a fellow epileptic wants me to add something, or feels like there’s something to correct, please do let me know.

i'm writing this purely to let people know about at least some of the pain with epilepsy, because it's not just having seizures. it's also worrying your family and friends, having to adjust your lifestyle to it (which i’ll come to a lil bit later), medicination, the side-effects of medicination, the fear of forgetting medication, the side-effects of forgetting taking medication even just a single day, possible anxiety or depression, embarrassment, hospital visits, tests, not being able to do certain things you want to do, people joking about it and making fun of you, scary and random body jerks, fear of waking up in an ambulance, fear of waking up with serious injuries or fear of not waking up at all - all of these are things that come with epilepsy and it's more of a pain than, to be honest, non-epileptics can imagine.

all that said, to those who have heard about epilepsy (or not at all) but don’t know what it actually means, is a neurological disorder; the activity in your brain becomes abnormal and uneven which mostly leads to seizures but also various sensations or loss of awareness. so it’s not constantly on-going and only actually happens when something triggers the brain to have that abnormal activity. it can happen to anyone, and when i say anyone, i mean anyone can have seizures, it’s just that it doesn’t automatically always mean that you have epilepsy (basically, epilepsy -> seizure; seizure -> not always epilepsy).

again, the condition is different from epileptic to epileptic, meaning that the triggers for seizures can vary a lot and depending on what kind of epilepsy it concerns. my own main triggers are flashing lights (also called photosensitive epilepsy) and lack of sleep but it can also be stress, skipping meals, overeating caffeine/alcohol/drugs/medicine, head trauma (aka head injury), brain damage (for example a tumor or stroke), etc.

symptoms for seizures can also vary. i’ve noticed that a lot of people think it’s always going unconscious and violently shaking/jerking, but it can also be staring blankly at nothing for a short amount of time, losing awareness, have rapid twitches in arms and/or legs, body stiffening, muscles going limp, and on and on.

honestly, one particular thing i feel like people need to know is that epileptics are just as human as others. aside from the condition itself, it socially and emotionally feels like shit when we’re treated differently. what i’ve, personally, often seen epilepsy being treated as contagious, a disease, mental disorder/illness or psychological disorder is in reality a neurological disorder. for the love of god, please take that into mind when you meet someone with epilepsy (especially if it’s your first time) because, while there’s nothing wrong with any of those, it’s really not fun when people treat you like it. we’re still human, and more human than those who think otherwise. on top of that, most epileptics are able to live just like anyone else, sometimes perhaps on the cost of adjusting your lifestyle to it, but by the end of the day many of us can live the same way as anyone else.

adding to that, if someone actually opens up to you about their epilepsy, tbh i hope you’re feeling grateful. for some, it’s not always an easy topic to talk about it so when they actually do let you on about it, you should know that it’s because they’re putting their trust in you.

something else i want to bring up is the do’s and don’t’s if you see someone have a seizure. it can be scary, understandable and this might sound ridiculous, but stay calm, for the sake of yourself, the person who’s having the seizure and people in your surroundings. this one got quite lengthy, so i’ll put it under the divider. thank you for making it this far, seriously, but it’d be great if you continued since this, no joke, can save a life.

time the seizure: most seizures end within a few minutes but if it’s still going on after five minutes, call an ambulance, whether you know if they have a history of seizures or not (what goes that, you can also check if the person is wearing some kind of epilepsy i.d)

surroundings (brief mention of blood): basically, bring the person away from harmful objects. to bring up my own personal examples, i have, during two different seizures, hit my head against a table (literally broke the entire thing) and against a shelf. while the first one miraciously didn’t give me more than a bump, the latter caused a jack and i ended up bleeding from my head. keep in mind though, that the objects don’t always have to be harmful for the head, but any part of the person’s body. obviously (i hope), bring them out from water if that’s where the seizure started.

turn the person to lay on their side: while they’re still unconscious, don’t let them lay on their back as this can block the airway. instead, put something soft under their head and loosen anything tight that might be around their neck.

don’t put anything in their mouth: for the love of god, just don’t. be it food or a cloth or something of that kind. a lot of people do especially the latter to prevent the person to bite their tongues off or swallow it (no, you don’t) but this just increases the risk of blocking their airway or making them choke on it. yet again my own personal example, this happened during my first seizure and i ended up having a cardiac arrest (how the hell i’m still alive, i still don’t know).

don’t restrain or hold their body: aside from turning them to lay on the side, don’t restrain their body, for example holding onto the parts that are jerking. this can also cause injuries or make it more aggressive.

stay with them: not only during but also after the seizure, stay with them. seizures are really, really exhausting both the brain activity and since the muscles in their body stiffen during the seizure. it can also cause one hell of a confusion/dizziness and stress so stay with them and calmly explain what happened as well as where you are. if you called for medical help, please, try to wait until they’ve arrived.

don’t give them cpr during the seizure: just don’t, it’ll only make it worse. you can, however, do it after the seizure in case the person doesn’t wake up and has stopped breathing.

also, if you’re an angel like @astronomlns and warn an epileptic for something that might include flashing/rapid lights, i love you and hope you’re having a good day :D

[mimzy-writing-online]

Hi! I have a question, if that's okay! I wanted to write a character who is a blind psychiatrist/therapist - some context, this will take place in the future, so he'll have a robot helper (also a cane, as many visually impared people often complain they don't see this rep). Do you think this would be "unrealistic"? Again, sorry if it's a weird question, maybe more suitable for a psychiastrist xD

Short answer: It is still possible to get a PhD in Psychology and become a psychologist/therapist, but it is not possible to become a psychiatrist which is a bit different. In my long answer, I discuss the difference between a psychologist and a psychiatrist and a possible solution.

So in ye olden times I was a psychology major. That’s the major I started community college with and it only took my second psychology class to realize it wasn’t the major for me and that I didn’t enjoy it. However, that second class happened to coincide with my recognition that I was losing my vision so I asked my professor the first week of class if it was possible for someone who was blind to become a psychologist.

He said “yes of course” and loaned me a psychology journal that had interviewed either 5 blind psychologists. And it is possible to make it through the years of college to get a PhD. (you know, in like ten years of university, three different degree levels, a specialized study and thesis, etc.)

Psychologists treat their patients with behavioral therapy programs based on research and talking with the patient to assess a problem and produce a solution the patient can use. But a lot of the work still falls on the patient to implement the plan into their daily life. Appointments with a psychologist are usually weekly and for an hour at a time. They have a smaller cliental following to psychiatrists (which I will get into next)

Psychiatry is different in that they focus on treatment through medication to solve problems with brain chemistry. For that reason, a medical degree is required to become a psychiatrist and to prescribe medication.

Is it possible to get a medical degree when you’re blind? I hate to say it, but I don’t think it’s possible. A lot of medical symptoms like rashes and bruising require sight to properly diagnose, plus looking at imaging scans of brains or bones or other organs to see the signs of a disease or injury. Just getting through medical school would be an ordeal fraught with unending discrimination from both professors and peers.

It could be argued that a robot helper could describe the visual symptoms, but then you run into the dilemma of “if robots can handle medical procedures, who needs humans to become doctors” followed by the dilemma of “if humans are needed to oversee robotic labor to make sure they don’t screw up, then the human overseeing them has to be able to see (insert ableism)”

So I would say becoming a psychologist who handles patient interviews and can have medical files read aloud via technology is within the realm of possibility. Hopefully this futuristic technology has become more accessible overall and there’s less discrimination against the blind in obtaining employment.

Psychologists usually collaborate with psychiatrists however, whether that is them working as partners in the same office, or referring their patients to the other’s care if they think the other doctor might better treat the patient.

So, possibly your character has a friendship with a psychiatrist and they work together, which could mean an interesting dynamic if that’s the route you wish to go for.

Addition: After posting this, a counselor in training sent me a message via anon to share their experiences for the original anon.

Re: Your blind psych post. I am a counselor in training myself so I wanted to add a few suggestions. You can copy and paste this onto your original answer. I wanted to suggest the counseling route or simply the psychologist route. Neither require medical school.OP, what draws you to this field? Do you want your character to conduct therapy? Where do you want them to work?

(2) What do you want them to do most? Research psychiatry, psychology, and counseling (LPC - Licensed Professor Counselor) and decide which one you like. I agree with Mimzy that psychiatry (which requires a medical degree) is probably out and your character would face A LOT of ableism. Psychology is possible. You can go many different routes career-wise. Clinical (therapy in various settings), Industrial-Organizational (researching and helping businesses and other organizations especially with boosting teams), school (not a school counselor and usually not a full-time position unlike a school counselor- the focus is on specialized cases such as a student with schizophrenia). 

(3) You can also go the research route. My instinct is research with or without a private practice, with some previous experience in various agencies such as with substance use or eating disorders (which are mostly group work and some individual sessions). Psychologists can administer tests + interpret them.

(4) (That is a psychologist’s main thing- in a private practice, they would be administering tests often).Counseling is focused on therapy and uses the wellness model rather than the medical one. Therapy in individual or group is the main thing. Out of all these professions, they do therapy/counseling the most. They also handle clients after they have received medication for whatever diagnosis they have (if they received or needed medications). 

(5) For example, they help with adjusting to school to school or work, regulating schedules or emotions, family adjustment, any other adjustments that person needs. They also help with more daily issues like adjustment disorders, chronic pain, dealing with grief or disease, sexuality or romantic concerns, adjusting to new disabilities, aging concerns, etc. They can diagnose (emphasizing counselor-client collaboration and the impact of a label on the client) and can conduct research. 

(6-7) I say this because psychologists often say they aren’t equipped to (I majored in psychology in undergrad, so I am very familiar with these things). The three major areas are School, Clinical, and Marraige & Family. The schooling is the same save for a few specialized classes and a different certification for a School Counselor. Counselors can work in schools as School Counselors, with couples and families, and clinical counselors can work in in-patient settings, with substance use or eating disorders or other agency settings, with children (play therapy), in private practice, in universities, etc. All of these professions require at least a Masters degree, years of residency/supervision, licensure exams, and continuing education to maintain it.

(8) With the robot assistant, and this type of work, confidentiality is going to come up. How do you protect client data? Is the robot encrypted and protected with a password? Does it only work inside her place of work?

Final Note from Mimzy: I would like to thank you for your response and help. It was incredibly helpful and much more in depth than I could possibly provide.

[scripttorture]

I have a few questions. First, What longterm effects would having ones shoulders dislocated for an extended time (hours, days, etc) have? Second, my MC has really vague, choppy memory of their time in captivity. Blurry, foggy images with little context flash in their mind, usually in dreams or when exposed to certain stimuli, ie, they get vague recollections of metal bars when it's too hot or feel claustrophobic if water is in their face. Is this type of sporadic memory realistic?

I’m not 100% sure what you mean, so I’m going to start by describing how I’m interpreting the memory problems you’re describing.

 What I’m getting is an idea that this character doesn’t actually have any real, conscious memories of captivity. Instead they have little fever-dream type snatches of images, feelings or possible sensations that might be related to their captivity but they can’t even be sure of that.

 It’s a pattern that I’ve seen a few times in fiction and generally it doesn’t line up with how memory problems in survivors work. Typical memory problems are less obvious and more insidious. They also tend to have greater lasting effects on the survivor’s life.

 That said, I think it might be possible in very particular circumstances. Something else would need to be going on that effected the survivor’s mental state at the time.

 Sleep deprivation can result in a lot of memory problems. But it’s more common for survivors to have gaps in their memories or small inaccuracies unless they’re sleep deprived to the point where they’re basically psychotic.

 I mean that in the sense of hallucinating, paranoid and disconnected from reality, not the colloquial sense.

 Even then sleep deprivation doesn’t usually mean no memory without stimulation. It means things like… ‘Oh yeah I remember I was held in this cell with metal bars and then the bars started bending and bugs stepped out of the shadows.’ Memories that are wrapped up in paranoid hallucinations that the survivor knows aren’t real.

 Fever can result in the sort of choppy memories I think you’re describing.

 Some drugs can also produce this sort of effect. I can’t really tell you much about that though because in the industry we see it as an unwanted side effect to eliminate rather then something to wilfully induce. Which means that if someone starts getting those side effects they get put on a different drug quick.

 Some of the so-called ‘truth drugs’ do have something close to this effect on memory, though they don’t make it more likely that people will tell the truth.

 And more often what survivors (or patients) who’ve been given these drugs describe is straight up gaps in their memory for the period they were under the influence of the drug.

 I won’t say that you ‘can’t’ or ‘shouldn’t’ use this sort of memory problem in your story. But if you’re dead set on it I’d strongly encourage you to come up with a reason why.

 Stress, captivity and torture would not produce this sort of effect unless there’s something else going on. But if your character was drugged throughout, or unlucky enough to be kidnapped while coming down with a nasty fever, then it might be possible.

 An unmedicated mental health problem could also produce this (ie character has a pre-existing disorder, is kidnapped and has no access to medication), but I’d suggest looking that up elsewhere because I’m not an expert on psychotic disorders. And as I understand it psychosis doesn’t produce memory problems; it distorts someone’s view of reality not their ability to remember those distortions.

 I will say that I think it’s usually better to stick with more typical memory problems. It’s more representative of the typical survivor experience and frankly there are a lot of poorly done amnesia/memory loss stories in the world already.

 You can read more about what the typical memory problems look like over here.

 Unless there’s something else going on survivors don’t commonly forget that they were abused or the broad strokes of what happened. It’s much more common for survivors to experience intense intrusive memories of a traumatic event then it is for them to forget a traumatic event*.

 Traumatic memories can be inaccurate but these inaccuracies don’t tend to be things like whether the abuse happened or not and survivors do tend to get broad details correct. It can interfere with a survivor’s ability to identify an attacker they didn’t know previously. It can also effect things like their perception of timing, details of where the attack took place and the events leading up to and after the attack.

 Survivors can also forget a lot of things that happened shortly before and shortly after an attack. They might lose memories of what they did the day before instance, or only have a blurry recollection of the week after.

 They can also have general problems forming new memories that persist at a constant level for life. This can make it difficult to keep appointments, study for an exam and continue with household chores.

 If you want to switch to more… Usually I say ‘realistic’ but in this case I think it’s ‘more common’, memory problems then here’s what I’d suggest to get something close to the disorientation you’ve got in the original idea.

 I’d use memory loss to an extent where the character has only very vague recollections of what happened the week before and after they were snatched. I’d then combine that with intrusive memories and inaccurate memories.

 I would set up the scenario in such a way that the character is aware some of their memories are inaccurate. For instance I might have them write down some thoughts and memories soon after they were rescued/escaped. Then go back to that in two weeks and find that it is really different to what they now remember.

 I’ve also established inaccurate memories by using multiple points of view or having multiple character present at particular points. Having contrasting points of view can show that the memories are inaccurate.

 You can also straight up describe what happens in the story, from the point of view of the character it happens to. Then later have them think or talk about it and show something different. Hell you can show the memory changing every time they think about it, without the character necessarily being aware it’s changing. That does happen.

 Intrusive memories are not necessarily accurate either. And they can be triggered in ways that are hard to interpret or understand.

 That mix of memory problems; loss of memories, inaccurate memories (both that the character is aware of and ones they’re not) with intrusive memories that seem to be set off by disconnected things- it can really make someone doubt themselves and doubt what’s real.

 Which isn’t quite the same as giving them these blurry, fever-dream memories but it can have the same narrative effect. They’re not sure what really happened. They doubt themselves.

 And there can be real fear and anger bound up in those things. Fear because not knowing and sitting with those doubts is scary. Anger because knowing you’re an unreliable witness makes any kind of justice or change next to impossible is… a lot to deal with.

 Those are the best things I can think of to get close to what you want from the story.

 I’d also encourage you to think about what this kind of ‘sporadic’ memory is adding to the story. I’ve written enough that I have no doubts it’s adding a lot, it’s an interesting idea to be working with. But it might help you to break it down and define exactly what it’s bringing to the plot and characters before you decide what to do. Having that list in front of you can make it easier to see other options and ways to include all the elements you want.

 As for dislocated shoulders- I’m no medic.

 Scriptmedic, the original Script blog, has a post on dislocations here. There’s also a handy NHS guide to dislocated shoulders over here.

 Most modern torture doesn’t involve deliberately dislocating the shoulders. Because that’s an obvious injury and obvious injuries are evidence of a crime.

 A lot of historical torture did involve deliberately dislocating the shoulders. But historical medical practice was not… shall we say ‘good’. The record keeping historically was also less then stellar and the result is that I don’t necessarily have access to the best sources here.

 My instinct is the effects would be pain and increased damage to the soft tissue around the shoulder joint. This can cause long term mobility issues, though generally not to an extent where people can’t get through their day to day life (they might adjust to do things differently putting less stress on the shoulders).

 I am pretty sure there’d be a higher chance of chronic pain afterwards.

 And that’s really the extent of my medical knowledge there but I hope you can find useful info on the NHS website and Aunty Scripty’s archives.

 I hope that helps. :)

Available on Wordpress.

Disclaimer

*Once again I don’t know much about childhood development and I don’t read much about child abuse. Anecdotally I have noticed a pattern where more survivors of abuse in early childhood report that they forgot about it. This may be because there’s extensive restructuring of the brain and neural ‘pruning’ that happens naturally as children grow. They still experienced lasting trauma symptoms.

[losingmymindtonight]

Whumptober: Unconscious

AN: Whumptober is just me seeing how quickly I can write something. It’s not quality, nor is it quantity, but it sure is fic. That’s about all I’ve got in me.

--

The alert went off just after 3:00 am.

Which was, as a general rule, not one of Tony’s favorite times to get alerts.

“Boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice startled him from his hyperfocus on the exposed circuitry in front of him, “I have detected strange anomalies in Peter Parker’s vitals.”

He looked up in surprise. “What time is it?”

“3:03 am.”

He blinked. “And why the fuck is the kid in the suit at 3:00 am? It’s a school night. His curfew is 11:00.”

“Mister Parker is not in the suit. My readings are coming from the biotech in his watch.”

Okay. That… that wasn’t exactly ideal.

“What are the anomalies?”

“Mister Parker’s heart rate is unusually elevated and his blood oxygen levels appear to be rapidly decreasing.”

Did the kid go on patrol without his suit? Tony was going to kill him. “Where is he?”

“In his bed.”

Wait, what?

“Are you… are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“What the fuck? F.R.I.D.A.Y., track his phone.”

There was a pause as the AI completed the request. Then,

“It appears to be on the table beside his bed, Boss.”

“Call him. Now.”

“Of course.”

The sound of the phone ringing filled the lab. Tony pushed away his project. He had more important things to worry about now.

The phone kept ringing.

And ringing.

And ringing.

Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. Peter Parker is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you finish recording you may hang up, or press 1 for more-

“Push the call through, FRI.”

“Yes, Boss.”

There was a brief rush of static, and then quiet.

If he listened really, really hard, he could just barely make out the sound of someone breathing.

“Peter?” The kid must be asleep (or unconscious), because there wasn’t any answer. He tried again, louder. “Peter!”

He heard the rustle of sheets, then a huff of confusion.

“Mis’er St’rk?”

“Thank god, you’re alive. You had me wondering there for a minute.”

“Huh? Where’re you?”

He blinked. “Try your phone, bud.”

“Wha’? Why’re you in my ph’ne?”

No, no, no, no, no. The spark of concern that had settled at the sound of the kid’s voice lit right back up, bright and sharp. This was a serious step above you-just-woke-me-up-and-I’m-still-half-asleep confusion. This was… that was something much, much worse.

“I-I’m not. I called you, Pete.”

“Called me?”

“Mhm. Are you alright? F.R.I.D.A.Y. says your vitals went wonky and you seem… a little out of it.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I don’ feel good.”

He sat up straighter on the bench, hands clenching with fear. He’d known something was wrong before, but hearing the kid admit it only gave purchase to the panic. “What do you mean?”

“Feel weird.”

“Define weird.”

“Dunno. Head hurts. Feel sick.”

Tony blinked. “FRI? Does he have a fever?”

“No, Boss. Although Mister Parker’s O2 levels are dropping low enough to be an imminent concern.”

He leapt to his feet. A little early morning trip to Queens wouldn’t kill him. Who needed sleep, anyway? “Pete? I’m coming over, okay? Can you get up and wake May?”

“Not here.”

“May isn’t there?”

“No. Graveyard shift.”

“Okay. Okay. That’s alright. I’m gonna come take care of you. Just keep talking to me.” The suit folded around him and F.R.I.D.A.Y. flipped the call to his heads up display without being prompted. “Do you feel like you’re gonna throw up?”

“Mhm.”

“If you need to, just do it. I’ll clean it up later.”

“M’kay.”

“Good boy.” He rushed out onto the roof and shot into the air. He was so hasty in his takeoff that he had to quickly correct his trajectory with his thrusters, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Did you feel sick before you went to sleep?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mhm.”

“Alright.” He muted himself and finally let the panic seep through his voice. “F.R.I.D.A.Y.? What the fuck is wrong with him? Is it the flu?”

“The flu does not usually involve such a rapid drop in oxygen levels.”

“Then what’s wrong with him?”

“My sources indicate-”

“Those sources better not be WebMD.”

“They are not.” If Tony didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought that F.R.I.D.A.Y. sounded offended. “As I was saying: my sources indicate that Mister Parker is likely suffering from a drug allergy. However, it is also possible that the symptoms are the precursor to an epileptic episode or a brain hemorrhage.”

“Why the fuck would he have a brain hemorrhage?”

“Considering Mister Parker’s age, state of health, and activity level, the most likely cause would be trauma. Until I can run a more in-depth scan, your best course of action would be to continue assessing his mental status.”

He switched his audio back on, nodding as if F.R.I.D.A.Y. needed his confirmation. “Hey, buddy. You still with me?”

“Mhm.”

“Good job. Hey, I have some questions to ask you, and it’s really important that you answer them honestly. I swear I won’t get mad.”

“M’kay.”

“Did you go on patrol earlier? Without the suit?”

“No.”

“Do you promise?”

“Mhm.”

“So no injuries I should know about?”

“No.”

“Did you take medicine before you went to sleep? Ibuprofen? Anything?”

“No.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Mhm.”

“Alright. Have you ever had a seizure, Pete?”

“Wha’?” That question seemed to wake the kid up a bit. “No. Why?”

“I’m just checking. How do you feel?”

Peter seemed to contemplate that for a second.

“‘M... ‘M really tired, Mis’er Stark.”

“No. Nope. Stay awake, okay? I don’t know what's wrong with you yet.”

“Somethin’s wrong wi’ me?”

This is wrong. This is so, so wrong. “Yeah, buddy. You told me you didn’t feel good. Remember?”

“Mm. Oh, yeah. I really don’ feel good.”

“I know. I’m,” he glanced at the ETA F.R.I.D.A.Y. helpfully threw up on the screen, “I’m three minutes away from you. Hang on.”

“M’kay.”

There was something impossibly frightening about having something wrong with Peter and not knowing what. He’d had to get used to the idea of the kid getting hurt on patrol, rolling into the Tower clutching a bleeding wound or a broken bone. It was an uncomfortable truth, but one he���d learned to assimilate into his life.

But this… this was exponentially more frightening. This was something happening to Peter, not Spider-Man. He could sew up bullet wounds and cast broken bones. He couldn’t fix something he couldn’t even diagnose.

God, he hated being stuck in the dark.

“Can you tell me more about what’s wrong, kiddo?” Honestly, he didn’t really expect to learn anything useful. He was just trying to keep Peter as lucid as possible until he could get there. “What feels bad?”

“Head.”

“Your head hurts?”

“Mhm.”

He could see Peter’s apartment complex now. Every inch closer made his heart rate climb. “Anything else?”

“Dunno. ‘M just… tired.”

“Alright. Remember what I said, though, right? No sleeping.”

“No sleepin’.”

“That’s it. Good boy.” He landed on the fire escape outside Peter’s room with the discordant clatter of metal on metal. It was loud enough to be unwanted at 3:00 in the goddamn morning, but Tony couldn’t bring himself to care. “I’m here, bud.”

“Took a long time.”

Don’t I know it, kid.

He ended up climbing through the window into Peter’s room. There was a part of him that nearly went into the main entrance and took the elevator to the apartment (May had given him a spare key, so he could’ve just let himself in), but the half-panicked ball of worry in his chest convinced him otherwise.

“Pete?”

The lump on the bed shifted. “Mis’er Stark?”

He rushed to the kid’s side, metal-clad knees knocking into wooden floors as he knelt beside the low-slung mattress. “Hey, squirt. Told you I was coming.”

Suddenly, an alert, red and flashing and impossible to ignore, exploded onto his heads up display.

WARNING: DANGEROUS LEVELS OF CARBON MONOXIDE DETECTED DO NOT REMOVE HELMET INITIALIZING OXYGEN RESERVES OXYGEN RESERVES INITIALIZED

He froze in realization. 

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

“Mister Parker’s symptoms match those of carbon monoxide poisoning, although it is notoriously difficult to diagnose without context. There is likely a leak somewhere in the building.”

“What do I-”

“It is advised to remove Mister Parker from the contaminated area and into fresh air as quickly as possible. I have notified emergency services. They should arrive within five minutes to assist the other residents.”

At some point during his hurried conversation with F.R.I.D.A.Y., Peter’s eyes had fallen shut. He didn’t move when Tony pressed his gauntlet against his shoulder. He shook him, first gently and then with more vigor, and the kid just stayed limp.

“Pete?” Nothing. Shit. “Alright. Don’t worry about it, kiddo, I’ve got it handled.” He tore Peter’s comforter away in a manner that definitely did not denote I’ve got it handled, but he supposed it didn’t really matter when Peter was unconscious. “I’m gonna pick you up now, okay? We’re going on a little trip.”

Peter offered no resistance when Tony scooped him up. And, fuck, the kid was heavy. Sometimes it was easy to forget that the kid was 5’8” of pure muscle.

Pure muscle that was now a complete deadweight.

Great.

He clambered onto the fire escape with a lot more grace than he’d really expected. Then again, he had the added motivation of not wanting to jostle the precious cargo cradled to his chestplate. As he went, he found himself babbling nonsensically to the kid.

“It’s all gonna be fine. I’m gonna take you back to the Tower and pump you full of oxygen. That’ll be nice, yeah? And I’ll call May, tell her that you can both bunk at the Tower until the leak gets solved. It’ll be great. You love sleepovers.”

Peter didn’t twitch during the flight back to the Tower, but F.R.I.D.A.Y. didn’t alert him to any worsening vitals, so he did his best to focus through it. He didn’t waste time taking the suit off when he landed on the roof, just headed straight for the MedBay.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” He called, skidding his way into one of the MedBay rooms. “What do I do? Why hasn’t he woken up yet?”

“He needs oxygen, Boss.”

He felt like screaming. “He’s getting oxygen.”

“Not enough.”

He deposited Peter onto the bed in a tangle of uncoordinated limbs. His lips were tinged with blue, just slightly, and the sight made Tony feel like he wasn’t getting enough oxygen himself.

“Sorry, sorry.” He winced in sympathy as the kid’s head lolled unnaturally against the plastic mattress. “I’ll make you comfy when you can breathe, kiddo, sorry…”

F.R.I.D.A.Y. chimed in before he could even process that he needed her help. “The oxygen tanks are located in the hallway supply closet, along with tubing and a mask.”

He jogged out the door and tore open the closet door. It only took him a few seconds to bundle everything he needed into his arms, but they felt like wasted moments all the same.

He’d helped set up a few oxygen tanks in the past, and it wasn’t necessarily difficult. Attaching the tubing was made slightly more complicated by the tremors running through his hands, but he pushed through it. 

“There ya go, buddy.” Relief rushed through him once the mask was snug over the kid’s face. “All better now. Or, at least, we’re on our way, yeah?”

The next few minutes dragged by. Tony resisted the urge to glue himself to the vital monitors. Instead, he forced himself to trust F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s judgement, and stuck right by Peter’s side, brushing his hair back and talking gently. He knew firsthand the adrenaline rush of waking up in a place different than the one you lost consciousness in, knew how terrifying and disorienting it was. He wanted Peter to have an anchor: something that he understood, even if he didn’t understand anything else.

“His oxygen stats are improving rapidly, Boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. offered after what felt like an eternity. “I estimate that he is likely to regain consciousness soon.”

Sure enough, Peter groaned a minute or two later, forehead wrinkling and he shifted weakly against the mattress. 

“Hey buddy,” he murmured, cupping Peter’s face and tilting his head so he’d be lined up perfectly in the kid’s vision when he opened his eyes. “C’mon. Look at me, yeah? Let me know you’re alive in there.”

Peter’s eyes snapped open. For a brief second, his entire body keyed up, muscles coiling, but then his gaze cleared and his pupils found the face hovering above him and Tony could see recognition shoot through his expression. He melted, then, a tiny smile quirking up the corner of his mouth.

“Morning,” Tony whispered. Peter just blinked up at him slowly, brow furrowed in confusion. “It’s alright. Just keep breathing, nice and slow.”

A sluggish hand fumbled up to the oxygen mask, but Tony caught it before he could pull it off. “Yeah, I know. Leave that be. It’s helping.”

“Patrol?” Peter slurred, and Tony had to strain to make out the word through the mask.

He shook his head. “Shh. Don’t worry about it right now, alright?”

To his surprise, Peter relented, eyes drifting closed again, any hint of lingering tension releasing from his expression. “M’kay.”

Tony let his head bow forward, shaky with relief. He felt like he’d spend the rest of his life chasing after Peter Parker, scooping him up and stitching him back together again.

“I’m really glad you’re alright, buddy,” he said, voice low and strained.

Peter didn’t answer, just turned his face sleepily into his palm, but Tony didn’t need to hear anything from the kid, anyway.

He knew.

[aelaer]

The Blood in My Veins (a serial)

Okay, so I will sometimes let prompts that interest me just sit for a bit and see if they remain in my head or not and yeah, Prompt #608 from @ironstrangeprompts (which I can't tag for some reason) wouldn't go away and I blame absolutely everyone who told me to do it for distracting me from the long multi-chapters I'm desperately trying to write this year. But in return you get Part One of a tumblr serial with absolutely no idea as to where it's going and no update schedule in mind. :P But it's supposed to get to the reveal in the prompt eventually. Promise. Speculation highly encouraged as that helps plot bunnies very much.

Prompt: Kidnapped to play doctor for a still unseen other prisoner; Stephen realizes there is only one person on the planet who would have palladium in their blood.

This is unbetaed; apologies for any errors.

Part 1 - How We Began

Stephen's thoughts were sluggish and his memory spotty as he began to wake up. Worse, he had a headache that was boring into his temples and made the idea of opening his eyes, never mind moving, sound like an absolutely terrible one.

Sound began to filter through the fog. Eventually he was able to distinguish some words within it.

"...waking up…"

"...pulse is still slow…"

"...considering what he was given…"

He recognized none of the voices. Through sheer stubbornness alone, Stephen ignored his pounding head and forced his heavy eyelids open, only to immediately close them again against the sharp brightness of the fluorescent lighting above him. He could not help but groan.

"Right, the lights," someone—female—said, and he felt a cloth placed over his eyes. "I'm afraid I can't do anything about the lights, but you'll adjust to them soon enough. I have some water for you when you're ready, too."

Some part of Stephen's brain registered that she had an English accent. The rest of the functioning part of his mind focused on speaking. "Who…" And that was all he could manage at the moment.

"My name's Doctor Summer Weston," she answered.

A doctor? Was he injured? He wet his lips and tried for more than one word. "My... injuries?" What had he been doing to get injured? How bad was it? How much morphine was running through his system?

He felt Doctor Weston's fingers on his radial pulse. (Why was she doing that? Where was the EKG?) "No injuries; your current headache and sensitivity to light are an after effect of the drug in your system. I think you're at the tail end of your symptoms, though."

That… made no sense in a number of ways. Stephen forced his eyes open once more, and the cloth over his eyes made the endeavor manageable this time. "What happened?"

He heard her exhale softly. "What is the last thing you remember?"

Stephen had to pause to think about it, which was both incredibly unusual and rather annoying. He frowned to himself as he concentrated. Was he at the hospital? No, he was off. He was… "Grocery shopping. I was at the store. I think I paid." Yes, he remembered paying. He had decided to walk the three blocks to and from the store and was heading back to his apartment. Beyond that point, his memory became fuzzy.

Doctor Weston didn't say anything about his answer and instead just said, "You need water. Do you think you can handle the light? If not, we can keep the towel on and I can help you up."

He didn't respond, but moved his arm up and pulled the cloth away from his eyes, squinting at the ugly rectangle panels above him. The other doctor helped him up into a sitting position and gave him a bottle of water, but Stephen was too busy staring at his surroundings. While he was on a medical bed, in front of him was a large room that could only be described as a biochemical lab. It had state-of-the-art equipment, much of it looking brand new, and working there was another man and two women all in lab coats. Against nearby walls away from the machinery were several other medical beds.

"Drink," Doctor Weston encouraged, and his parched throat more than anything had Stephen doing so.

"Where am I?" he asked, squinting at Doctor Summer Weston. She appeared somewhere between thirty and forty and currently wore her long brown hair in a messy bun. She was pale and looked tired, with dark bags under her grey eyes and thin lips bent downturned. She wasn't wearing any makeup, either, which was a look he knew on his female patients before surgery but usually not on female doctors (and a couple of non-women doctors, too).

"I don't know," she answered. "None of us do." 

Stephen's confusion (and alarm, though he wouldn't admit that yet) grew. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

She gave him a rueful smile. "There's really no easy way to break this: you've been kidnapped, just like the rest of us."

He stared at her in disbelief, half-wondering if he heard her right. His head was still pounding with his heartbeat and that made his hearing less clear, after all. "What?" was what he managed.

"Yeah." The lackluster smile returned. "So, are you an orthopedic surgeon or a neurosurgeon?"

"Neurosurgeon," he automatically answered, then stared at her. "How did you know?"

"The X-rays," was Doctor Weston's inexplicable answer. "I'll show you in a bit," she said as Stephen went to retort. "We should get introductions out of the way. Drink more water."

Stephen frowned at her, but his head was still complaining and for that reason alone he drank instead of demanding further answers that moment. At least the light was becoming more bearable.

In the meantime, Doctor Weston called to the others, "He's fully awake now. Take a break for introductions and water."

One of the women, who was in her mid-forties, he guessed, with thick straight black hair pulled back, and a rich coppery brown skin that appeared in tight and worried lines across her face, shifted in discomfort. She adjusted her narrow-rimmed glasses then looked over to the wall, and Stephen followed her gaze to see a camera in the corner. "How long have we been working?" she asked; she also had an English accent.

"About five hours," Doctor Weston said after looking at her watch. "You should be okay for a few minutes."

"I think so. I have to wait for the centrifuge to finish, anyway," said the third woman, and the tallest of the three women (though maybe it was her natural curly hair giving her extra height). Her white lab coat contrasted sharply against her rich umber skin under the bright fluorescent lights, and just like the others, she looked stressed and tired. She appeared somewhere about his age and was definitely American, with the slightest hint of a southern twang in her voice.

The final one in the room, a balding man with salt-and-pepper hair and perhaps in his mid-forties or early fifties, stepped forward from his work station first. His complexion was a flushed pink and he wore thick lenses, but they did nothing to hide his bright green irises. "How are you feeling?" He spoke with a heavy German accent.

Stephen grimaced. "I've been better," he answered as he was surrounded by the four of them.

"We know what it feels like," the African-American woman replied. "I'm Doctor Jada Ferguson. Hematologist, University of Texas MD Anderson Cancer Center, Houston."

"Doctor Meera Mahajan," said the other unnamed woman. "Pathologist with a specialty in cytopathology, from St Bartholomew's Hospital in London."

"I'm from London, too," Doctor Weston added. "Though from St Thomas' Hospital. Cardiothoracic surgeon."

"And I'm Doctor Steffen Baar," said the man. "I work as a pharmaceutical chemist for Bayer in Wuppertal, in western Germany."

Stephen wrapped his mind around this new information as they introduced themselves and started trying to connect the pieces of this (terrifying) puzzle together. After they finished speaking, he cleared his throat and said, "Doctor Stephen Strange. Neurosurgeon, Metro-General, New York."

Doctor Ferguson made an affirmative noise. "I read your latest publication not that long ago. It was fascinating."

"I've read yours as well," Stephen said, then looked at the others. "I've read publication papers from all of you within the last three years." And there was a reason he remembered their names; they were all brilliant studies and clearly experts in their specialties. Why the fucking hell were they all here?

His face must have reflected his thoughts, because Doctor Mahajan said, "Whoever brought us here wants us to work." She glanced over her shoulder, then added, "Which is apparent." She then opened her mouth, paused, then shut it.

Stephen frowned. "Work on what, exactly?"

Doctor Weston also looked over towards the camera, then said, "Our job is to keep an unknown patient alive. And you've been drafted."

Tagging @walkin-in-the-cosmos (though it’s not tagging right) and @queenofalotofdifferentworlds as requested in the original prompt post.

Full disclosure: In terms of writing I concentrate more on plot and worldbuilding and not really the development of romance. Whenever this serial ends, it'll likely end on an ambiguous, open ending to interpret the relationship's route to the reader's pleasure (what we once labeled "gen or pre-slash" stories, not sure if that's used anymore). It'll definitely not explore anything remotely sexual beyond your usual PG-13 innuendo (if that). So if that's not what you're looking for in this prompt fill you can ignore the rest of the series :)

But if the serial does interest you and you want to be tagged in the next post, I'm starting the clean slate with this first one. Just leave a comment expressing interest in being notified/tagged for the serial, though I'm afraid I have no planned update schedule.

[gaiatheorist]

A little knowledge...

I keep starting this, and then deleting it, that’s either an indication that I’m trying to process as fully as i can, or that I’m being avoidant, and slipping into another depressive episode, I’ll keep an eye on it.

I have an untidy heap of paperwork at the side of my desk, it’s not ‘on’ the desk yet, because I’m not quite ready to fill it in. There’s no deadline on it, so it’s ‘floating’, rather than ‘fixed’, and the formatting of it is doing my head in. It’s the end-of-course review and coping plan for the Trauma Stabilisation Group I finished last week. I told my son a few days ago that the ‘mentals’ write their own coping plans, and he was incredulous, I’m relatively good at planning, and taking all factors into consideration, but the new medication, and the appeal against the denial of my disability benefit, and, well, 2020 are taking a toll on me, I’m slipping.

‘Introduction to Trauma Stabilisation Class’, three 90-minute sessions, delivered via Microsoft ‘Teams’, on account of the Covid-19 pandemic, we’re too unwell to be left to our own devices, so the online group was the least-bad option. It’s free, I know a fair few people who have had to pay for their own therapy, because they can’t access NHS treatment, and I know I’m part of a very small, but fortunate number, to still be on NHS lists. Groups of people with mental health issues are always a bit of a gamble, there’s the waiting-room-contagion factor, where some people will exchange symptoms and ‘unhelpful coping mechanisms’, and the weird mix of characters that are inevitable. This was either my third or fourth ‘Introduction to...’ group, and the online format was differently stressful to the in-the-flesh ones. I know ‘most’ of my group-dynamic bad habits, and there’s always a little bit of my cognitive functioning occupied with telling myself *don’t* do this, or that. In a nutshell, I’m a watchful show-off, the ‘feeling small and vulnerable’ part of my C-PTSD would, historically, lead me to muck about, or attempt to dominate groups, throw in my autistic ‘organising’, my professional desire to help, and the fatigue and over-stimulus from the brain injuries, and I *could* be a nightmare in groups. 

I was honest with the triage staff right from the beginning, it’ll be in my notes that I acknowledge my tendencies to ‘take charge’, as a means of coping with so much in my life that’s been beyond my control, it’s not all deliberate, and it’s sometimes really useful. I’m a sheep-dog, which is productive when I’m rounding up stragglers, and pointing them in the right direction, less-so when I’m distracted by a squirrel outside the window. 

Being what I am, and knowing what I know from my previous career is a double-edged sword. I know the fancy words for the theories and processes, so can be mildly irritated when the language has to be dumbed-down to the lowest common denominator. It does have to be, though, on the previous course, we had a couple of participants who couldn’t read the text on the worksheets (formatting issue, too much text crammed onto each page, to save on photocopying costs, they strained my eyes a bit) I can’t do my (TM) Autistic thing of assuming that, if I ‘know’ a thing, everyone else in the room does too. I can do my helpful thing of re-explaining something the facilitator has said if the group don’t seem to ‘get’ it, or clarifying something a participant has said if the facilitators misconstrue it. (One of the staff on the previous course was an absolute horror for that, she wasn’t listening actively, just barrelling on with what she thought had been said, people stop volunteering information when that happens.) I’m not there to ‘help’, or to ‘lead’, though. One of the participants in this last group threw a bit of a tantrum, she’d dominated most of the speaking in the previous session, and flipped when I was given air-time to explain something. That was hard to deal with, because I automatically switched to Mentor-mode, and very nearly lost track of the content trying to think of a way to alert one of the facilitators to check in on her, and try to bring her down from her agitated state before she hurt herself. 

I’m dabbling with the slightly paranoid theory that some participants, or even facilitators might think I’m a Mystery Shopper sort of thing. My ‘old’ practices and processes made a lot of people ask “How do you DO that?”, the ‘Matilda’-thing, I just do, I’m exceptional at a lot of very difficult things sometimes, but I can’t use oven-gloves, and, especially recently, I’ve been forgetting a lot of words. Other participants might think I’m a smart-arse, I am, it doesn’t matter, I imagine I frustrate the facilitators because I can give theoretically correct answers, but can’t consistently apply the theories in my own life. I’m not there to make friends, we all have to sign contracts of expectations saying we won’t form relationships, I understand that, an elective empathy with other high-end mental health cases is never going to be a good thing. My curious combination of conditions makes me a bit of a distance-er anyway, I stick as firmly as I can to the procedural pathways, it’s a process-with-purpose, not a popularity contest.

I’m struggling with the ‘be kind to yourself’ angle again. It’s not in my nature, I don’t know how. That bumps heads with the ‘normalising nice things’, even at this level of mental health intervention, we’re encouraged to ‘savour the taste of your favourite food’- food is just fuel, I don’t have a favourite, and, when people start banging on about chocolate, or cake, or whatever, I don’t get it. Visit a favourite place, phone/meet up with a friend, listen to uplifting music, go for a walk, buy yourself flowers, have a haircut, all of the ‘normal’ nice-things leave me cold, I don’t really have hobbies or interests, very few things spark my oxytocin or dopamine responses, I’m not a joyful type, that’s my baseline-normal, not a press-the-panic-button indicator that I’m depressed. 

“You’re just not trying!” Luckily, nobody ‘medical’ has trotted that one out, but it’s been the backing track to my life pretty much forever. I am trying, I’m trying very hard, especially since the brain injuries. There’s been a slow realisation that I have to pick my battles wisely, though. I’ve long maintained that anyone who’s ‘always’ happy must have a flap in their back where the batteries go, I’m not advocating living in a constant state of ‘Eeyore’ gloom, but constant joy must be bloody exhausting. I’m not always moody or maudlin, I’m just sort of ‘flat’, not particularly animated or enthusiastic about much, but I can engage for short periods when I need to. “Smile, love, it might never happen!” can get right in the bin, and, as the internet pointed out the other day, telling someone to ‘just think positive’ as a cure-all is ridiculous. Well-meaning, but oblivious people will chip in with their intrusive-insensitive opinions of how a bit of yoga, or more vegetables are all we need to be all-better, and it’s a challenge to not point out that some of us are a bit beyond ‘just snapping out of it’. 

That’s not defeatist. I’m autistic, my brain runs on a non-standard Operating System, the updates don’t always load, and I have to make a hell of a lot of work-around adaptations. Sometimes life’s like walking everywhere with my shoes on the wrong feet, and sometimes it’s like my appliances have come with the wrong plug, and I have to stick a spoon-handle in the Earth socket to make them work. On top of the autism, I had a succession of adverse experiences through the course of my life, which have left me with C-PTSD. I have a telephone-directory of medical conditions, and the icing on the cake was the brain haemorrhage  five years ago, I have brain injuries, bits of metal plugging up aneurysms, and one area of ‘risky’ defects on my brain-stem. Those are facts, I have a file of medical paperwork about two inches thick, but the UK disability benefit departments have decided to latch onto the fact that I’m not on any medication for mental health issues. (I’ve tried lots, none of them worked long-term, and now we know we’re dealing with a neurodevelopmental disorder, and physical brain damage, I don’t think a bit of Prozac is going to help.)

Knowing that my brain is physically and chemically different to ‘most’ people’s is not a get-out-of-jail-free-card. These are reasons, not excuses, and I’m doing what I can to work within and around my limitations. I’m not unique, or a special unicorn, I’m disabled, and damaged, and trying to work with the fragmented NHS. One of the issues with the trauma course was the assumptions. I absolutely don’t blame the facilitators, they’re working with pre-prepared material, and a ‘difficult’ cohort. I did gently correct the course-leader, when she started listing ‘normal’ coping mechanisms, the walk-in-the-park, cup-of-tea-with-friends type ones. Some of those ‘simple’ activities are incredibly difficult for some of us, that’s why we’re at this level of intervention, if we could have ‘just’ joined a knitting circle, or taken up photography, we’d already have done it. I explained the need for pacing, the other two participants had limited impulse control, so giving the ‘shopping list’ of strategies was a bit risky, I know I have a tendency to over-reach, so need to be careful with myself. None of us had mentioned nightmares or flashbacks, but they’re on the standard list of indicators for PTSD. There was an assumption that we all had them, in the same way as one of the other triage practitioners, ages ago, told me “It’s not PTSD, because you don’t have nightmares.” I have auditory and olfactory flashbacks and hallucinations. 

The doctors that didn’t make further investigations for the mutated migraines before the aneurysm ruptured. The gyneacologist that told my HUSBAND “There’s nothing physically wrong with her.”, the Occupational Health doctor who told me “It’s not vertigo, because that’s spinning.” and “It wasn’t a stroke, because you don’t have one-sided weakness.” I know they have to have lists of diagnostic criteria to start from, but Little-Miss-Autistic here spent far too long just-trying-to-cope because I didn’t fit neatly into their matrices. (Don’t get me started on DWP/PIP ignoring reams of evidence, and just picking out that I turned up to the assessment with my trousers on the right way around...) 

I know too much about some things, and not enough about others. My ‘flat’ presentation gives the impression that I’m calm when I’m not, and coping more than I am. The review for the trauma class isn’t until September, and I genuinely don’t know what the next step will be. I’m already on the waiting list for the ‘Compassion’ course, and the very long waiting list for the Specialist Neurodevelopmental Service in the city, to see if there’s anything ‘else’ I haven’t already tried to work within and around the autism. I’ve slipped through a million holes in a million nets, because I know enough to give the answers I ‘should’, the biggest irony is that when I answer “I don’t know.”, the assumption is that I’m being defensive or difficult. A little knowledge is indeed a dangerous thing.   

[dicedungeons-and-dragons]

Waylan’s Sabbatical (6/?)

A chunk of writing following our party NPC (and my Son) as he breaks away from the party. Our campaign uses names of places from various fandoms for fun but they have no real relation to the source material. (We also call the Raven Queen Nara because of some hasty Wiki reading) This section contains Terran and Waylan’s first meeting!

TW: Mentions of past torture, general violence, injury.

Part: First | Previous | Next

“Wake up!” The slap rattles his teeth as it hits him. If he wasn’t already crying he thinks the blow would force tears to his eyes. A fresh taste of blood coats the inside of his mouth as his vision swims around the dimly lit room. The Crimson Sign sneers down at him. Gods what he wouldn’t give to forget the times that Maurak sat down at the bar to share a drink with Gadreel. Because those memories only make the monster standing in front of him, a monster who has shattered his bones and hacked away at his arm, more vivid. Maurak was always a monster. He had just hid it well. 

Another blow snaps his head to the other side, but this one is harder, hard enough he feels his cheekbone crumple inward and one of his teeth splinter and jam into the side of his tongue. Black spots dance across his vision and he tries to spit out the blood that’s rapidly pooling in his mouth before he chokes on it. 

“He wasn’t the only monster in hiding.” Oh. Oh, thank Gods. It’s another one of these. His head spins as he forces himself to look up. He’s standing in front of his own bound body, Maurak’s knife in his flesh hand, and his metal one raised to deliver another blow if need be. 

“It’s just a dream.” Waylan slurs to himself. “You’re not real.” 

“Not yet.” The blow comes again. But this time he feels it reverberating up the gears of his arm. Sees Gadreel’s head snap to the side. Sees Lugh spitting out blood. Sees Vani’s legs bent at odd angles. Sees Ray’s arm hacked off, tattoos still burning. And it feels so good. He loves pressing his metal hand against their begging mouths, love watching his hand catch fire and the flesh bubble and blacken on their face as their screams rattle against his palm. He burns them until he can’t see their faces anymore, until he wakes up screaming with smoke clinging to the back of his throat. 

****

It’s rare he wakes up screaming, and even rarer that he loses control of his magic nowadays. But when he comes out of his nightmare, brain soaked in pain and fear and sees a shadow moving towards him he strikes without thought. Magic dripping from his lips as he throws out a hand and blasts the approaching figure with a burst of flame.

“Waylan!” The Knight’s voice, so unfamiliar compared to the ones that haunt his dreams,  manages to shake him from the lingering terror.

“Fuck, shit, Gods I’m sorry,” he jumps from the bed and rushes forward. “Are you alright?”

“I’m well enough. It would take far more than that to incapacitate me. You were screaming.”

“I’m sorry. That doesn’t usually happen.” The Knight stares down at him for a long moment. It’s times like this, with glowing red eyes looking down at him, he remembers that the lich towers over him just like Radiance, Lugh and Gadreel used to.

“The screaming, perhaps, doesn’t happen. But I watched over you as you healed. I had thought your nightmares a symptom of fever, but they haunt you now as well.” Waylan swallows the wave of shame that tries to crawl up his throat, reaches for anger instead.

“It’s none of your business.” The words are covered in barbs but the lich doesn’t seem to notice.

“Why do you keep coming back into the forest, Waylan?”

“What the fuck does it matter?” He turns away from the Knight, stalks over to the wardrobe with no doors to grab his few belongings. “I won’t be back.” Because this is too much. Too close. He left Creta so that no one would ask him questions he can’t answer. He doesn’t need those questions to find him here, least of all out of the mouth of an undead. He gathers his things as quickly as possible and makes for the door. The Black Knight’s gloved hand slams into the stone beside his head, cages him against the wall before he can make a break for it. Sparks flick up over his fingers nervously. He can’t fight a lich. He’s not strong enough for that. And even if he could get away from him he doesn’t know the castle as well. The Knight could certainly catch up to him if he wanted.

“Waylan.” He says his name lowly, the sound of it reverberating against his helmet. “You are not a traveler are you?”

“What’s that even supposed to mean?” He says, his throat tight.

“You are not traveling, you are running. A coward, fleeing from a person, or a memory. And you have found a home in woods that makes cowards of all who journey inside.”

“You’re still here.” He snaps. “Two hundred years later in this place for cowards. What are you hiding from?”

“I’m not hiding. The forest you see and the one I live in are very different. You will stay here and I will show you.” The Knight drops his hand and gives Waylan a bit of space. “Maybe when I am finished you will be able to face what you were running from.”

“You aren’t going to keep me here against my will.”

“I’m not. But I think you know as well as I that you’d return again even if you left right now.”

And every nerve in him is scraped raw and pulled taut and he desperately wants to walk out the door, take his things, find a ship, and move on to a new place. He could be away from Okren in four days time if he didn’t rest. He could leave and never come back. Never blink at what might have happened to the Dark Forest and the warrior lich that lived there.

But the stump of his arm is aching, and his throat is still raw from screaming. He hasn’t heard from the others in weeks. He hasn’t slept well in months. And he’s tired of running.

****

The next morning the Knight has him up at the crack of dawn and as soon as he’s dressed and fed they’re heading out through the service tunnels and into the forest. To be honest he’s still half furious with himself for staying. The other half is furious with the lich for presuming to know so much about him and having the gall to be right. Which doesn’t make him much for conversation and they head deeper into the forest. 

Waylan’s been past the castle before. He’s gone about four days further, but it was extremely slow going. When he’d first started traveling through the Dark Forest he thought that the castle would be at the heart of the forest and the most difficult to make it to. But while there are plenty of monsters and treacherous land serving as deterrents, he found the actual landscape of the forest beyond the castle is far more hazardous. The Knight navigates through the foggy landscape with ease even as Waylan starts to struggle for breath as a the mist takes on a sharp and nauseating odor. It takes until about mid day, but eventually he has to pause, coughing hard enough that he thinks he might shake a lung loose. 

“Apologies, I forget the boons my existence offers me.” 

“Yeah, well, do you know if this fog is toxic for us lowly humans?” 

“It will not poison you, but it will be uncomfortable.” The Knight looks around and then says, “Ah, little one,” Waylan is about to start cursing when he sees the lich looking over at a squirrel that’s sitting up in a nearby tree. “Get a message to your master. Tell him I have come to visit and hope he will extend the same hospitality to my friend as he has graciously done for myself.” The squirrel cocks its head and then skitters across the branches, leaping into the next tree and then on into the thick forest until Waylan can’t spot it anymore. 

“I don’t think I want to meet your friend.” 

“I will do my best to keep you safe.” And Waylan doesn’t like the sincerity in the tone. 

“What am I about to meet?” 

“‘Who’, you’re going to meet the dragon who has made his home within my borders.”

“A dragon?” Realization slides sickeningly along the same path as sour air to his lungs. “A green dragon?” The lich inclines his head. “I can’t meet a green dragon, Knight! I helped kill one!” He hisses. 

“And why would I care about that little human?” The words come in raspy tones and Waylan tenses as he turns to face the new speaker. Fuck him with a dull pike. Fuck. 

There is no towering creature before him and somehow that makes what is standing there even more terrifying. Only old dragons can take human form and the one standing in front of him has to be old. And the older a dragon is the more dangerous. The man is tall and thin, too thin, with his dark leathers clinging to his body. His cheekbones jut out sharply as if he’s missed a few dozen meals, and the long fingered hands that he folds in front of himself as he considers the two of them are thin with his knuckles making knobby protrusions. His eyes are an unnatural vibrant yellow and his hair is shorn very short against his skull, so short Waylan can’t really tell the color, only that the fuzz is very dark. 

“If you managed to kill a dragon that means it was not worthy of life. What kind of higher being gets slain by a flea?” 

“Waylan this is Terran, the Hungry One.” The Knight dips his head respectfully and Waylan follows suit. “Terran, this is Waylan, the human who has been mapping the forest.” 

“Yes, yes, your little pet project. Why bring him to meet me?” Terran looks Waylan over disinterestedly. “Unless you’ve brought me an offering, Lich?” 

“Not this time.” 

Waylan is half a second away from casting a fireball between them all, turning invisible, and making a run for it. 

“He speaks draconic. You so often complain you no longer get to converse in your mother tongue I thought you would appreciate the opportunity.”

Waylan thinks he sees a spark of interest in the dragon’s eyes. “Is that true little human, do you speak a language far superior to the one that humans use to grunt through their meaningless lives?” 

Every inch of him bristles at the comment. And for a wonderful, suicidal moment, Waylan considers telling the dragon to go fuck himself in clean curt draconic. Instead he settles on, “If a language’s worth is based on how many know it then the ravings of a madman must be far more blessed than even Tiamat’s tongue.”

Terran stares at him for a long moment and Waylan wonders if he can still spit poison in this form. Then he looks over at the Black Knight. “He lives, for now.”

“Your patience is appreciated.”

[vernonfielding]

Life Writes Its Own Stories

EPILOGUE (AO3)

AN: There is discussion of symptoms of post-traumatic stress in this epilogue. It's nothing too dramatic, I don't think, but I wanted to note it for anyone who is sensitive to the topic. Please take care of yourselves, readers.

Jake was right – the ceremony was no New York Public Library gala. The room was decorated with wilted streamers and a few drooping mylar balloons, and it had a stale high-school cafeteria aroma. All of the appetizers plus the sparkling cider – which was definitely not Champagne – were an unappealing room temperature. The metal folding chairs were stiff and unforgiving, and Amy’s butt was falling asleep.

But as she sat in the front row among the cops and politicians who made up the bulk of the audience, as she watched Jake stand square-shouldered in his dress blues – as the commissioner thanked him for his bravery and hung the Medal of Honor over his chest – Amy blinked back tears and thought: This is exactly right.

An elbow nudged her gently, and Amy looked down to find a tissue pushed discreetly into her hand. She glanced to her right and caught Melanie’s eye.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Melanie whispered, quickly brushing a stray tear from the corner of her own eye.

Amy looked back at the stage, where Rosa was now getting her medal, and she saw the barely-there smirk on Jake’s face as he caught her eye.

“I think they’re onto us anyway,” she muttered to Melanie, and they both laughed under their breath and dabbed at their eyes.

+++

The weeks after they’d been kidnapped had been rough.

It started a day or two after she’d gone back to work. At first Amy noticed that she startled easily. Car alarms, the bang of a door slamming shut, the thud of a stack of newspapers dropped on a newsroom desk – any loud, sudden noise made her heart race and her breath catch in her chest. She thought it was lack of sleep or stress about work, then Charles came up behind her one day at the copy machine and she was so surprised – so scared – that she elbowed him in the gut and very nearly stomped on his hand when he fell to his knees. Terry took her aside after that and gently suggested she take some time off. Later he slid a business card into her hand and said it was his own therapist, and Amy should make an appointment.

She dismissed his concerns at first, but then she called in sick two days in a row when it was too cold to walk and the thought of getting on the subway, surrounded by the noisy chaos of too many strangers packed into a too-small space, sent her into a panic. So she called the therapist, and after one nerve-racking visit she was diagnosed with acute stress disorder.

Though Amy knew it wasn’t logical she felt instantly, deeply ashamed. She told herself that she couldn’t be traumatized, that she’d come through it all fine, no injuries, barely even a bruise. So she’d been scared for a few hours – they’d been held in a penthouse suite the whole time, lounging on a king-sized bed with silk sheets and embroidered throw pillows.

But she couldn’t stop feeling scared, and sometimes she couldn’t stop crying, and sometimes she felt so angry that her blood pulsed in her temples and her neck. The worst was when she was overwhelmed or overstimulated and seemed to float out of her own body, like the real world was slipping away while she stood by, cotton-headed and paralyzed. Her therapist called it dissociation. She said it was normal. It made Amy feel like she was losing her mind.

Jake figured out pretty quickly what was going on, and he told her it was understandable that she had post traumatic stress, that he’d been there too, in the past. He was gentle with her and he validated every one of her roller coaster emotions and he didn’t judge her or patronize her. And when she threw him out of her apartment one night because she fucking needed to be alone, she texted him an hour later and he was at her door instantly, because he’d stayed in the hallway the whole time, waiting for her to come back to him.

After that they talked about trust some more, because it always seemed to come back to trust between them. Amy realized she needed to trust that she could lean on Jake, that he wasn’t going to break and neither was she if she let him take care of her sometimes. And Jake realized he needed to trust Amy when she said it was time to handle things on her own. Amy knew she’d gotten the easier deal, because she couldn’t imagine watching Jake hurt and letting him go.

But it had been eight weeks since the Vulture. Amy could take the subway to work again. She didn’t jump out of her skin every time a taxi honked or Gina suddenly swore at someone on the phone. She still sometimes cried in the shower for no obvious reason, but she hadn’t yelled at Jake since that one night.

And Jake – he was so good. They were great.

+++

Jake and Rosa were swarmed by reporters as they walked off the stage after the ceremony. Normally this kind of commendation wouldn’t get any media attention, but the Vulture story was still huge, and now every local publication was present. Amy spotted Hitchcock in the fray – he was pretty much the only person on the Bulletin staff without any ties to Jake, at this point – and also Adrian Pimento, their new photographer. Pimento was a talented shooter but had a tendency to go rogue on his assignments. Amy avoided working with him.

Amy and Melanie watched with amusement as their significant others braved the throngs, and Amy couldn’t help the flush of pride at how Jake handled himself. She’d drilled him over the weekend on how to handle the press, and the practice seemed to be paying off. She could read the signs of stress in the fine lines between his eyebrows and around his mouth, but to a casual observer he would look courteous and professional. Rosa, on the other hand, was standing just behind his shoulder and scowling. Amy couldn’t hear what either of them was saying, but every now and then she saw Rosa frown even more deeply and respond with a “no comment” Amy could read from across the room.

When they finally broke free, they bee-lined for Amy and Melanie and both couples exchanged the briefest of cheek-kisses before everyone seemed to deflate with relief and the simple joy of being on their own in the crowd.

“I still can’t believe we got the same medal when only one of us was kidnapped and stabbed,” Jake said to Rosa, who smirked at him.

“Not my fault you got your ass captured,” Rosa said, and turned to Amy. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Amy said. “But if anyone should be annoyed, it’s the woman who helped take down the Vulture and got kidnapped and nearly died and isn’t getting any medal at all.”

Everyone laughed and Jake gave her a quick one-armed hug. Melanie said, “I thought there were rumors that the mayor was going to give you some kind of civilian commendation?”

“Yeah, but probably not after that piece on the mayor’s slush fund she wrote last week,” Rosa said.

“Plus, she’d never take a commendation from the mayor,” Jake added. When everyone glanced at him he shrugged and said, “Conflict of interest. Right, babe?”

Amy just beamed at him and said, “You do know me.”

+++

Amy had met Jake’s mom the weekend after the kidnapping, when she had a well-timed lull between breakdowns and Karen came by Jake’s apartment with a bag of frozen meals to get him through the couple of weeks his arm would be in the sling. Jake had met Amy’s dad and the rest of her brothers over Christmas. They both made great first impressions – Amy because Karen was kind and sweet-natured and basically impossible to scare off, and Jake because her family had decided he had saved Amy’s life, despite Jake insisting that it was mostly the other way around.

She’d been exhausted after the holidays, burned out on anxiety and too much family, and they spent New Year’s Eve in her bed, watching old TV blooper reels and favorite SNL sketches on their phones until they both drifted off, well before midnight. And Amy thought if it was true that how one spent the last hours of the old year would be echoed in the new year, she was all right with that.

They mostly stayed holed up in her apartment or Jake’s after that, though they met Rosa and Melanie for drinks more than once. Those two were an odd but charming couple, a sweet-and-sour combination that clearly brought out the best in both of them. Melanie was warm and easy to just be with, even when Amy felt socially exhausted. And Amy found in Rosa a surprising ally as she worked through her issues, because Rosa was an attentive listener and also brutally no-nonsense. Sometimes Amy needed to spiral a little bit, but sometimes she needed someone to shut her down, or to help her put things in perspective.

“I’m just tired of having a panic attack every time the Uber Eats guy buzzes my apartment,” Amy said morosely one night at Shaw’s, when it was just the two of them at a table while Jake and Melanie dueled over darts.

“Yeah, it’s ridiculous,” Rosa said.

Amy froze. She was getting used to Rosa’s bluntness, but there was blunt and then there was insensitive. “I mean, I wouldn’t say I’m ridiculous-”

“Not you,” Rosa said. “Our brains are wired to turn trauma into chronic stress sometimes. It’s dumb. I hate it.”

Amy stared at her, mouth agape, because it wasn’t every day a revelation was dropped in her lap. “Yeah,” she said. “It is dumb.”

+++

Jake slipped Amy’s glass of (flat) sparkling cider from her hand and set it on the tray of a passing waiter. Then he turned and offered her his arm.

“Time to mingle?” he said.

And it was a small gesture, but it made Amy’s heart rush to loop her hand over his bicep and let him escort her toward the crowd. Rosa rolled her eyes as he led her away, but Melanie gave them a playful wave and mouthed “good luck.”

“So now I’m just arm candy?” Amy said to him.

“Always. Wait- never,” Jake said. “Is that a trick question?” She could hear the smirk in his voice.

They hadn’t actually discussed that this would be their first big outing as a couple. Somehow, despite all the press around the Vulture and countless interviews with Amy (and a few with Jake) and multiple in-depth stories about the night they’d been kidnapped, the fact that they were dating had not been made public. Amy wasn’t sure why anyone who wasn’t family or friend would care at this point. Still, given their history, she’d expected Jake to be nervous about coming out.

But his only reservations in the days leading up to the ceremony had been for her sake – making sure that she was going to be okay with all of the people and the socializing. They’d walked into the venue hand-in-hand, Jake in his crisp uniform and Amy in a wintery-green day dress. She’d felt a flutter of nerves in her belly, but only for a moment, and he’d pressed her fingers as if he sensed she needed the reassurance. They’d met up with Rosa and Melanie inside, and Jake had found Amy a seat and he’d stayed by her side until the ceremony began, and she wasn’t sure if his attentiveness was out of concern or affection or both, but she appreciated it all the same.

Now, as they moved through the celebratory mob, Jake was enthusiastic with his introductions. Amy met men and women he’d been in the academy with, and former partners and mentors from before his time under the Vulture. Everyone seemed to have a story about Jake to share – some prank he’d pulled, an amazing solve he’d made, how if anyone was going to take down a captain they would have put their money on Peralta. There were also an alarming number of stories about horrible bouts of food poisoning, and Jake apparently had a bizarre tendency to accidentally pants people. She thought that was some kind of running joke until she caught Jake blushing furiously after the third story.

After a while they found themselves surrounded by a few high-ranking officers, stumbling over each other to congratulate Jake and make some comment about how they’d always had doubts about Pembroke, which was as hilarious as it was insulting because men like the Vulture didn’t climb the NYPD ladder without support from the top. Jake introduced her to his new captain too, a man who insisted she call him CJ, and who seemed pleasant enough; both Jake and Rosa had said the jury was still out.

Amy was glancing around the cluster of brass, thinking how odd it was to be standing with so many gray-haired white men who looked the same, when she noticed a faint buzzing in her ears and a tingling in her fingertips – signs of an impending dissociation. She fought it for a moment, impulsively chastising herself for becoming overwhelmed in such a non-threatening place, but then she reminded herself that it wasn’t her fault and she wasn’t alone. She was still holding onto Jake, and she squeezed his arm slightly. He glanced at her and must have recognized something on her face, because he interrupted his captain, and with barely an “excuse us, sir” he led Amy away.

He took her to a quiet corner of the room, where they could watch the clutches of people talking and laughing, wait staff slipping in between to pick up used glasses and plates. A DJ set up near the stage was playing something Amy couldn’t quite make out. Jake slipped behind her and tucked his arms around her waist, holding her to him. She felt him kiss the top of her head, felt his thumbs rub over her knuckles, felt his chest solid and reassuring against her back. She leaned into him and breathed through the anxiety. Keeping herself in the moment. Letting him ground her.

When she felt like herself again, she closed her hands over his briefly, and turned in his arms to face him. He gave her a careful smile, and she nodded back at him that she was okay – because she was, truly.

She let her eyes fall to the star-shaped medal on his chest, and she reached for it, holding it in the palm of her hand. It was heavier than she’d expected, and cool to the touch. She ran a thumb over the points of the star.

“You realize,” she said, now tracing the engraving with the tip of a finger, “I’m going to need you to wear this all night.”

She looked up at him with a coy smile, expecting a flirty smirk in return, or a whispered suggestion of what else the night would bring. Instead, the smile he gave her was soft, even wistful, and the warmth in his eyes made her stomach do a slow flip.

“You realize that I’m in love with you,” he said.

Amy felt her cheeks flush, felt the warm rush of tears in her eyes, and she nodded, because yes, she did know. She’d felt the same for a while now, and maybe it had been petty of her but she’d needed him to say it first. She thought maybe they’d both needed that.

“I know,” she said, when she thought she could trust her voice. She brought her hands up around his neck, felt his hands at her back, pulling her a little closer. “I love you too.”

The kiss was just a brush of their lips, but also a promise.

+++

Rosa and Melanie came up not long after, Rosa complaining that she was straight-up insulted that there was no open bar. “Can we leave for your mom’s now?” she said.

Jake pulled out his phone and glanced at the time, and he noted that they would be a little early to the after-party that Karen was hosting but she wouldn’t mind.

“Thank god, I’m starving,” Melanie said, ditching a plate filled with half-eaten appetizers on a side table as the four of them headed toward an exit near the stage.

“We might want to stop somewhere for a snack first – Charles arranged the catering,” Rosa said.

“Smart,” Melanie said.

They disappeared into the lobby, Amy and Jake right behind, but Jake paused when someone called out his name. Amy turned, and it took her a moment to recognize the man jogging toward them, an anxious smile on his face – he ran a new Brooklyn newsletter-slash-gossip blog. She’d seen him at a few recent press events. She thought his name was Teddy.

“Can I get a photo?” maybe-Teddy said, addressing both of them.

Amy opened her mouth to say no, but Jake was faster, and he said, “Sure” and slid an arm around her waist, pulling her to his side. Teddy grinned and lifted his phone, and just before he snapped the picture Jake turned and planted a kiss on the corner of Amy’s mouth. It was sweet and it was chaste but it was also a kiss, and Amy blinked in surprise as Jake pulled away with a sheepish smile.

The photo ran on the top of Teddy’s blog that night. Two days after that, Amy found a printed-out copy of it on Jake’s refrigerator, under a Donatello magnet. The image was slightly out of focus, and the quality of the black-and-white print was not good, but it was impossible not to see the warmth and the love between them. Jake’s eyes were closed, his lips curved into the hint of a smile against her mouth, and Amy looked like she was a breath away from laughing, utterly charmed by her impulsive boyfriend.

“It’s not the first time we made news together,” Jake told her, when Amy asked why he’d put the photo on display. “But it’s the best.”

Amy told him that was the cheesiest thing he’d ever said and she was never going to let him forget it, and he said, “Promise?” And she kissed him.

The photo ended up on Amy’s refrigerator when Jake moved in with her six months later. She laminated it.

And that, officially, is the end. <3